Time is a thief

Nanna P. is here so I had to sleep downstairs last night. Depression hangs over the house, the short tempers and irritability make everything feel claustrophobic.

There's been fighting in S. Georgia, film of armoured personnel carriers in Port Stanley, John Nott talking about the possibilities of war. The interviewer pressed him to make a commitment about war with Argentina and its consequences: would there be attacks on the mainland, etc? It could get serious.

Andrew thinks I'll turn into a ‘commie’ at University, “playing at being radical”. . . I really hope I don’t. Much better to keep myself to myself, read a lot, be essentially apolitical. I don’t know.

In the evening Andrew's mate Jim called round in his car and they went out. Jim asked me if I wanted to go, but I said no and regretted it immediately. I should be pushing myself into new situations, be meeting people, which reminds me of that phrase that Buddhism is “knowing as many different people as you can.” Instead, I chicken out and do nothing, My deeds don’t reflect my thoughts or opinions! “Time is a thief and man the victim; but life endures.”

Late on I listened to Carmina Burana by Carl Orffe, who died last night aged 86.