Margaret visited me again last night. I wish she wouldn't just appear like that. It doesn't half give me the willies.
She stank of drink again. Death doesn't seem to have put a stop to that little vice, and it was fag after fag. Mind you, she seemed happy enough, and doesn't have to put up with that vile one eyed Scot turning up at all hours of the day and snaffling all the bourbons. Philip the Greek keeps threatening to shoot him. I might just let him.
Can we still do that? Shoot the oicks? I'll have to ask Fatty Prescott, he seems to know about those things.