Total complete utter mind-consuming boredom: anger, frustration, self-hate, neglect, juvenilia, cloying claustrophobic desperation . . . everything. . . . It was so horrible. I missed two lessons and at one point – Peter calling me a “bastard,” obviously disliking me, everyone prating on, Deborah’s forbidden iciness, things closing in on me . . . God it was so awful and stultifying! To be truthful though, Deborah did endeavour to be OK a bit during the morning and again in the afternoon and I, desperate for normality, acted really conciliatory and submissive almost.
In Giles’s lesson I stared out of the window at all the incredible clarity; rocks, stream, grass, lake opposite, everything sharp and wet.
I never do any work because the horrible rut my mind has stagnated into only lets me sit around resentfully, hatefully.
Andrew wants to come to the Jazz Festival: he rang in the evening about me buying a £35 Praktica, which I had to decline. . . .
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