Sunday after Ascension. A wet, filthy day at Pateley Bridge. Up at 8.30. We have to pay 75p for each van on the camp site. Bloody diabolical. Hang about in wonderful Pateley-by-the-Sea until the pub draws us in at 12 o'clock. Have fish and chips first and run up and down the main street looking for a chemist so that Chris could buy some anadin or something to relieve tooth-ache.
Pateley Bridge isn't exactly Yorkshire answer to St Tropez but it serves a purpose.
Carol and Igor (I think that's how you spell it. You know who I mean don't you? The chap with the hunchback who serves as right-hand man to Baron Frankenstein?) are in the Crown. Have a few pints of lager and I watch the others playing darts until chucking out time at 2 o'clock. Don't talk to me about bloody British licensing laws.
Back to the camp site to see Christine & Stuart for a few hours. The three of us park next to Christine and Stuart's tent, and Chris cooks Pete and me a meal. Eat at 6.30.
A chill coming on undoubtedly. Pete says that we 'pen pushers' have no resistance to germs. He last visited a doctor nine years ago to be treated for a broken arm. I say that the job you do has nothing to do with resistance to chills. Some people get them, others don't. Resistance to illness is as much a characteristic of a person as the colour of their eyes and sex drive, &c. Pete refused to listen to this theory.
I know how Darwin must have felt.
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