Moorhouse Inn
To Menston today bearing Dad's spectacles which he left here last week. He's been a mess without them and borrowing Brian's (his neighbour at Horton). He spends many hours with the Daily Telegraph but says he doesn't have the concentration to read a book. I think he is frightened of becoming too like his father, who sat for hours with a weighty tome upon his knee, ignoring all around him. I can see the old boy now reading a biography of James Joyce. For many years I took this to be Lord Haw Haw ... but that was another James Joyce. At Menston Dad and John were painting the kitchen. Dad very subdued. I sat watching them ... yawning. Oh dear, what a life.
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