Moorhouse Inn, Leeds
Heavy rain. A miserable old sod came in and says we really need the rain because his runner beans are dry. So we all have to suffer for the sake of one vegetable patch. My headache persisted and I lay quietly moaning listening to Ray Moore on the radio. Out to Morrison's at 10. £17 on food provisions. Tonight we sat upstairs and left Margaret and Karen below. It seemed quiet enough. Karen was looking hounded and thinks we have it in for her. She is right of course. She has agreed to work next Tuesday because she wants to do it, but sniffed and looked undecided when I asked if she'd do it permanently. This is disgraceful. Roy Barnes wouldn't put up with it and give her her marching orders. I must be soft in the head. I have been reading some blurb about the Queen Mother in the Daily Express, last Tuesday's paper. Fairy stories. The Queen weeding her mother's garden at weekends because the old Queen cannot find a gardener. The Daily Express is sadly going down.
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