Tuesday, February 9, 1982


I woke up, drifted back to sleep, and had a really weird dream. I was in a second hand book shop in a predominantly W. Indian area and found a book by a Russian author called Inspired By Kerouac To Travel. I opened it up and inside was an inscription to me from Mum and Dad. Strange. Late again, got in at 10.00.

My new resolve to work hard crumpled in the face of the tedium and lethargy of school. It really is an awful place to work. Bad tempered, frustrating, cloying sense of boredom, overwhelming negativity. Deborah blew up at Lee again when he got deliberately awkward and rude.

After Art, Grant came round to go to the Pre-Valentine party at Harvey's. He was wearing a paisley pattern silk scarf and told me about the poetry of Charles Bukowski and a friend who’s into Rimbaud. "Bukowski's better than Ginsberg, who's sold out a bit. But Ferlinghetti is still good."

Peter showed up at eight and we all set off for Harvey's but we had to go all the way back because I forgot the tickets. We were there by nine. Big hassles about getting in; the bloke at the door turning loads away, demanding identification, saying how sorry he was but “it's the law of the land” and “we’re trying to run a business.” He eventually allowed us in after we stood there protesting long enough. Rumours of a police raid.

Inside, the familiar: dark, noise, drink, people standing about in groups, friendly comments. Grant and I mostly sat, bored, gazing at the glittery confident people all around, but eventually Grant danced, leaping and flinging himself about incoherently, kicking and twisting. . . . People started to openly mock him, some even going out right in front to imitate him; he knew but didn’t care and even seemed encouraged. Lee arrived, did a bit of his fluent, professional sort of dancing and left again at 12.

Upstairs, an upset Robin was having an intense argument with Wendy, who hit him someone said. Tim and Laura were at it again and Adrian Barlow was snogging with someone too. Late on, smoochy time, the statuesque couples dotted around the darkened dance floor. . . .

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