Monday, August 3, 1981
I rang Grant up about our hols and he invited me to a party at Fitzgerald's. I went into Easterby and bought a good book from the library, a 1938 edition about a TUC man’s journey through Russia.
At nine I met Grant at his house and we walked on to Fitzgerald's, which has a typical, unremarkable, and gloomy interior, lots of seats and tables scattered around occupied by groups of people, thudding music, and flashing lights. Grant and I sat with a lad and two girls, Caroline and Ruth. Typical inhibitions to begin with. . . .
Seven pints later I was gone, worse than ever before. I was told I was “serious even when you’re drunk" by Caroline, who giggled continually, and I felt quite happy really, swapping drinks, even falling over, pouring beer down my self and lying on the floor. People were spewing up in the toilets. We left at one-thirty and I walked home absolutely sloshed and weird feeling, with non-focusing eyes and muzzy, buzzing ears.