Friday, April 16, 1982
Mum left early for Robert’s and Andrew spent last night at a friend's in Whincliffe, so I was alone for most of the day. I haven't started any of the huge amount of work I have to do but a sort of calm “I’ll do it tomorrow” attitude prevails, but this leaves me in a state of mental and physical torpor.
The house was quiet all day. Andrew came back at three, but left again to go out for the evening with his old school chum Keith Patchett and returned close to midnight, disillusioned and full of contempt for his former friend’s mental and material state, his “mass-mentality,“ his CB, his nice cosy married rut, his moron friends. Andrew said he never wants to get entangled in that net or to be settled too long in one place.
The degeneration of so many minds, people at school showing terminal symptoms already (Claire, Peter), the Matthew Knights, Andy Briscoes of this world who don’t care if they're doomed to live out lives of perpetual sameness and who even promote their boring existences as models for others to follow, deriding dissenters as immature and extravagant idealists. They don’t seem to realise or care that what is passing them by is new experience.