Sunday, May 3, 1981
It was one of those classic days when I feel so enthusiastic and optimistic but never get anything done; instead I read the Sunday Times much of the afternoon and for the rest of the day watched the rain and nothing much else. I feel in a “literature-art” mood, really taken with things generally, filled with an urge to just do something.
I never know what though.
Thatcher’s been in for exactly two years today. Bobby Sands is in a coma. Surely he’d serve his cause more adequately by living. It seems like he’s just giving the IRA and the Protestants a justification for murder. As I write this it is 7.30, and Nanna P.’s just gone back. Outside it's a stormy, grey and white sky, but it looks as if it could clear. It all goes with Tubular Bells somehow.