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Saturday July 13, 1985

 Moorhouse Inn

We thought Margaret M was due back from Blackpool today, but she cannot start work until tomorrow. I phoned Gary and he came in at 12 looking weary. He blames the sex. "I never thought I'd say no to a bird, but last night I couldn't manage any more. I just had to sleep." Young Booth is 21, with no feeling, care or sensitivity. Perhaps he'll change one day when the right 'bird' comes along.

Fret about the stocktake. Even the Why Not at it's blackest wasn't as bad as this. To be ripped off and know that you can do little about it is dreadful.

Clapton at Live Aid.
Live Aid. Have you heard of it? Gangs of pop stars queuing up at Wembley Stadium and simultaneously in Philadelphia singing to raise a possible £50m for Ethiopia. Live TV coverage from this morning until 4am tomorrow. Bob Geldof is the pushing force. Perhaps I should say Bob Geldof, OBE, though the honour does seem inadequate for master minding this event. People get the OBE for mucking out toilets. Perhaps Bob Geldof, CH? Quiet in the pub. Marjorie worked. What a nattering barmaid she is. We watched Eric Clapton at 1am and then went to bed. Samuel slept for the first time in his own single bed. Thunder at 4am and the patter of tiny footsteps put paid to that and he appeared in our room for a cuddle. Already by 2am he'd fallen out of bed and we found him underneath in a crouched position. Angel he is.

-=-

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Monday August 26, 1985

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