Moorhouse Inn, Leeds
The deputy high commissioner in Bombay, Percy Norris, has been assassinated on his way to the office. Nobody is safe these days. Topically, Archie has just told me a joke:
Fred: "How do you fit six people in a mini?"
George: "Go on. Tell me. How do you get six people into a mini?"
Fred: "Two in the front. Three in the back, and Mrs Gandhi in the ashtray."
Awful, but amusing. Mum and Dad came here at 5. She is still very yellow, but looks better. Ally came down wearing a black and gold creation and looked amazing. It is the Sam Smith's annual dinner dance, of course. We went down to the bar at 6:30 with Mum and Dad. A coach came to collect us and we joined a motley crew and headed to the Buckles Inn, York. We were on a table next to the ghastly band with Chris Barlow and Enid Holden (?), the wines and spirits buyer. Steak on the menu. Boring presentations and then drinkies. Ally was in good spirits and she dragged Roy Barnes on to the dance floor. As usual I was drawn to the charms of dear Marie. R_____P spend the evening stealing cigars from all the tables, no doubt to help his stocks. Chris Wills took all the prizes, as usual. We didn't even go into the draw for the best kept cellar. Enid and I danced to a jazzed up Christmas carol. Really awful.
These evenings go by so very quickly and you know how my memory leaves me after alcohol. Ally did look chic though. Home on the coach singing furiously. My rendering of 'Oh God Our Help In Ages Past' brought tears to Mike Walker's eyes. A clutch of Leeds landlords left the coach at the Brown Hare to go to the loo, and a few were puking up in the carpark. It is Don Whitfield's birthday too. Home for 3. We went in to see Mum and Dad. Samuel had wailed only at 1:30 but was at peace again. To bed giggly and pissed.
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