Moorhouse Inn, Leeds LS11 5NQ
We now live, breathe, sleep and eat Postman Pat. This afternoon we went over to dear Club St where Samuel and I stripped the small bedroom of its wallpaper. A hive of industry. Later we had lasagne and bathed a dusty, exhausted Sammy and attempted to put him to bed. He steadfastly refused. I was in the comic situation of crawling around in the darkened bedroom whilst Sammy lay clutching Snoopy, with one eye closed and other eye scowling down at me. Ally had her feet up watching 'Dallas'. It was poor Bobby Ewing's funeral. The old Miss Ellie back and Sue Ellen is on the bottle. Just like old times. I was sticking some photographs in Dad's album when at 10 o'clock a distraught man knocked at the door saying he was Mrs O'Brien's son-in-law and that our neighbour had died an hour ago from pneumonia, meningitis and blood pressure. An awful shock. We didn't know that Mrs O'B was ill. We were speechless. She was a sweet, Irish lady with a friendly face and in all the years we have dwelled at Club St she never once complained about our orgies and drinking bouts. We retired at 1am, quite worn out.
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