Moorhouse Inn, Leeds
Waterloo Day. Jennie Rawnsley's birthday. She has no doubt now reached puberty. What a clever child she was. No developments from Susie. You won't believe this, but we have had a letter telling us that Leslie Gledhill is ceasing to be our area manager, and to be replaced by guess who? Yes, not Colin Black. Not Donna Lea, but by Fran O'Brien. We both could be physically sick. This has really knocked the stuffing out of our cushions , or wind out of our sails, or whatever it is they say. To Leeds market at 9am. We saw Fran O'B on the doorstep at the Duncan, but he didn't arrive at the Moorhouse. Uncle Bert staggered out of a taxi at 10:30. Vague and dry as ever. We had a chicken and mushroom pie and watched Ursula Andress in 'She'. Mum, Dad and Christopher arrived at 4 o'clock. We passed an evening in the lounge bar. Bert and Papa always go off on some unanswerable debate which can be boring. I refused to be drawn into the banter about A. Scargill, public schools and Mrs Thatcher, though I do fear for the prime minister's future if papa mirrors public opinion. Dad voted Tory in '79 and '83, and now thinks Mrs T is unyielding and could be more compassionate, &c. Is this a turning point for Maggie's fortunes? Bed late. Bert, poor soul, suffers from a vast inferiority complex. We must, he says, be earning as much as £100 a week. Oh, dear.
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