Monday, January 25, 1982
Fascist groove thang
Lee showed up at half-past eight and we set off for Art, feeling overwhelmed.
The foyer of Farnshaw College annexe was already filling up when we got there and we all filed meekly into the hall to the stern commands of an ugly, warty faced woman. Typical exam rituals: desks, total silence, papers given out. Four essays in three hours. I worked quite well, even waffling pretentiously towards the end.
Finally at twelve-thirty glorious release and in a happy mood we took the bus onto Lockley and wandered up through the dereliction to Mum’s school to give her a key. Then we stopped at Lion's Roar Records, inside dimly discernible shape of lone rasta behind the counter. It took us long enough to pluck up the courage to go in but we did. Another rasta guy came in and looked about vaguely. As Lee said, "It's strange we’re so near home but feel so uneasy and out of place. It's like we're intruding almost." All the way down into Easterby we talked about it, wondering why. . . .
Praxis is closing down it seems, and all the second hand books and pamphlets downstairs were free, the new books upstairs reduced in price, a gloomy end-of-the road feeling, subdued student types sighing and wandering about with forlorn handfuls of books or postcards. Outside it was spitting with rain, everything oily wet and depressing.
I bought Andrew a Heaven 17 twelve inch. My Rip Rig + Panic record is really good: weirdly, they were on Riverside at teatime.
Grant rang, from boredom he said, and I couldn’t think of anything to say.