Slivovitz

My cold, which began on Thursday continues with a headache, blocked nose, and lethargy. I listened to Athletic lose three-nil at Bishophill on Radio North while watching the siskins and greenfinches feeding on the nuts outside.

Later, I made an attempt to get some work done. Total failure. Peter rang mid-afternoon to see if I wanted to go to Halyna's party, and at six-thirty I met him and John Emsley down by the bus stop.

We got off at Lodgehill, met Lee, and walked on into Easterby. On the way we ran into Grant and as we approached we shouted across the road to him, but he obviously didn’t recognise us because he instead speeded up and hugged the wall, glancing across at us nervously. . . .

We got there way too early and stayed in a nearby pub for an hour or so. The party was being held in a large Church hall with the obligatory flashing lights and posers galore. Halyna is Yugoslavian and all her relatives seemed to be there. I started out on lager but soon switched to Slivovitz as the party developed into a crap, lifeless affair. Claire and co. showed their faces but left soon after; it was obviously not their scene, and others seemed to be doing the same.

Tim and Laura got on like a house on fire, and ended up snogging. How does he do it? He's just amazing: first Wendy, then Sharon, Lynn Norden, and now Laura! Lee was bored, I felt annoyed, and everything was just crap so we left with Colin Baron at about midnight, getting a taxi back to his house where we sat muzzily drinking coffee and talking until three a.m. by which time I'd sobered up.

I hate it all, the reckless spending with nothing to show for it. A waste.