Moorhouse Inn, Leeds
The papers are full of d-Day slush. I suppose they are all fussing about this particular anniversary because in ten years time the veterans will all have passed on to that great beach head in the sky. To think they gave everything to save this land for the likes of Arthur Scargill.
Sue rang. We had been to town and had sauntered in the market carrying a hot, snotty Samuel, and I was standing in the bar screwing up a light fitting showering plaster everywhere. Sue told us they are putting her in bed at the Clarendon Wing tomorrow and will leave her in this horizontal position until she delivers her baby. This could go on for weeks. The poor girl is very brave and good humoured. Christopher is going to Horton for the duration.
John came at 8:30 with a big bearded bloke called Joe. Both looked soiled. We stood in the tap room talking about Keith Jessup, the HMS Edinburgh salvage millionaire and a friend of Joe. John is back in favour with George Q. Waite, also on his way to a vast fortune. John says JPH has laryngitis. Ally and I feel throaty too. They left at 10:30. Karen and Margaret moaning about how busy it's been. What are they here for if not to be busy? Staff - what trouble they are.
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