Moorhouse Inn
Full Moon
Stocktake. The nameless, idiot stocktaker appeared at 11 and stayed until 3. What a pillock. M.R. Dalison is his name. Ally loathes him. He was wearing a wide 3ft 6ins velvet tie. Incompetence abounded. We ended up with a £99 surplus, but didn't feel happy. Sam Smiths must be insane employing this chap.
Fun and games here. At the end of the evening the highly-pitched singing concubine of the George Cole look-alike, Ron (tap room) decided to faint prostrate upon the floor, spilling ale, and causing a wave of excitement among the regulars. There she was, wide-eyed, apparently suffering from respiratory problems. I had to use my head and act quickly. "Outside and on to the moor" said I, not wanting a stiff on the premises at 11:15pm. So, outside she went to lay 'in state' upon one of the picnic tables, and waiting for the arrival of an ambulance. I shut up shop and retired. ____.
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