Moorhouse Inn
New Moon
It was an early rise because of our darling son and heir, who had no qualms about getting his drunken Papa out of bed to provide him with a 'full English' breakfast. The guests from last night had stayed over and they all ate too. Some in a shocking state of undress. Gerry in his canary yellow y-fronts. We watched cartoons on the telly and giggled at Maggie Philbin, or is she Philpotts? They all left at 11. Pitts had collapsed on the loo and we found him with his pants around his ankles amidst the choking fumes. Ally was green. At 12 we returned to bed for a few hours, and Samuel caught up on some beauty sleep. Little else to say. Phoned Dad. We are going to Horton tomorrow.
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