Sunday February 16, 1986

 Moorhouse Inn, Leeds LS11 5NQ

1st Sunday in Lent

I have contracted another soddin' cold. Probably from Samuel. My lips are cracked and I bleed when I smile. Downstairs bearded Brian asked me about Kaiser Wilhelm II and what became of him. I told him that the old Emperor had died in Holland (Dorn) in 1941, and that his grandson had married Lady Honor Guinness, and that his great-granddaughter Antonia von Preussen was the wife of a future Duke of Wellington. Yawn, gasp.

The pub is extraordinarily quiet this afternoon and bliss to go upstairs at 2:30 to watch 'Eastenders'. I sat with a large cherry brandy, purely for medicinal purposes. Oozing from various facial outlets. Mucus, &c. Feet up. Samuel is very good at times like this. Playing doctors and hospitals and practicing mechanics at the rear of his Postman Pat car. Quite a chatterbox. Large dark eyes like his mum. I'd love a dozen like him. Ally won't discuss boy names, and no doubt has a secret weapon up her sleeve. Wayne, or Dean, or something. 

-=-

Saturday February 15, 1986

 Moorhouse Inn, Leeds LS11 5NQ

It would be a tragedy to lose the prime minister. She is the only person in whom I can place my confidence and she does deserve a third term. Another crack at the whip. If the Tories ditch her before the next general election I will refuse to vote and remain at home on polling day and read Dickens.

Andrew is 22. 

The pub was deathly quiet for three reasons. 

1). The weather

2). Barry McGuigan is fighting on the telly

3). The punters may think the Kennedys are still here

Bernie: wellingtons.

Tonight: Punters gathered around the TV in the tap room. Even Frank and Bernie and other lounge inhabitants, to watch the fight. I've never been one for boxing but found it entertaining. I stood for the national anthems and then dimmed the pub lighting for effect. It was like the Odeon cinema. Bernie was wearing her wellington boots. Barry McGuigan won in 13 rounds. His opponent was one of those south American types. 

-=-