Moorhouse Inn, Leeds
The snow goes. We went to Tadcaster leaving Mum and Dad babysitting. No sign of Rob and Kath. Donna (Lea) says Kath is in hospital with blood pressure. All the Sam Smiths managers assembled in the sub-zero brewery canteen. The new 'flexi-time' was the main item on the agenda, and we watched a promotional film on a tiny TV set. We then went shivering to the Angel & White Horse. A sycophantic bunch. C__W took the award for the manager with the brownest tongue (re arse licking). David Tyne came to Ally's side and Fran O'Brien suggested suitable restaurants for our supper. We spent some time with Don Whitfield - a nice man. We left at 9:30 and went to Jacomelli's, yet again, and found the place to ourselves, but for a fat, homely waitress called Doris. I got the hiccoughs so badly that the crockery rattled. Pissed as a fart. Home. Samuel had been angelic. To bed.
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