Moorhouse Inn
Snow falling. Horribly cold.
Princess Michael is 40. She says she is known as 'MC' in the family and not as 'Our Val'. MC is of course Marie-Christine.
Mum pottered about in the kitchen making sheep's head broth and dumplings. It is an old Wilson family recipe and now more or less extinct because sheep's heads, like cod roes, are scarce. A great pity. The pub was quiet. Three old men supping ice-cold mild in sub-zero temperatures. We ate at 2. Afterwards Ally and I went out with Samuel and scaled Dewsbury Rd in arctic conditions to buy cod roes and other provisions. Samuel refused to wear gloves and had blue fingers.
Ally went down and opened the pub at 5:30 and I went down at 8. We sat with Harold Wilkinson and Co. talking about regional dialects, and way that all Londoners think that Yorkshiremen 'work down't pit', eat tripe and onions and wear clogs on the cobbled streets, &c.
Dad sat reading the Oxford Dictionary of Quotations. He suggested to Mum that we might visit Auntie Mabel tomorrow, but she says she isn't up to it. Later I phoned auntie and she said they might come here at the weekend. Watched 'Edgar Wallace' until 12:30 and ate cheese and biscuits. Still no word from John and Janette. Little buggers.
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