Thursday October 4, 1984

 Moorhouse Inn, Leeds

Sir Horace Seymour.

Sunshine, but chilly. I am writing this in what we grandly call 'the office' but in fact it's a dingy, mustard-painted corridor with a prison cell window at one end. Like the Chateau d'If in fact. However, the 'office' does have a desk and a safe, and two family trees on the wall - one royal and one humble. I think Samuel likes to look at the large, blue royal pedigree pinned there. I roll off the names of distant Spencer forebears, the likes of Sir Horace Beauchamp Seymour (1791-1851). It would please me if in years to come the boy could show interest in genealogy but I do suppose we have bred a budding communist agitator with leanings towards squash, windsurfing and micro-electronics. Ally played darts and pool. I worked with Margaret.

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