Mum and Dad went on holiday to a Calverdale caravan this morning. Everything was bright and sparkly sun-warm as they left and I felt sad about not going, about being marooned alone for a week. It’s at these times of self-indulgent pity and loneliness that this diary comes into its own. These words are safe, knowable and offer a tangible link with all that's gone. . . .
Simon and Grant rang: Simon invited me to his place to help consume a 72-pint £30 barrel of Tetley’s; Grant juts wanted to talk, but he’s coming over tomorrow afternoon.
I set off for Simon’s at quarter-to-eight and bought four bottles of cider on the way. There were a handful of people at his house–Geoff Dixon, Sean Tracey, Philip Barker and a young teenage kicker-booted girl. Simon was there with his friend Darren Hawksworth, the latter in battered, embroidered flared jeans, sweatshirt, beads, his face sharp and hidden behind long dark hair. He was quiet, unassuming and easy to get on with, and he's a jazz-rock fan. He recommended Brand X's Livestock. I ran back home and got a few records and we listened to them and drank and talked and then set off to Moxthorpe for a Chinese. We were loud and anti-social on the way down, screaming and shouting and making comments to innocent bewildered (and annoyed) passers-by.
By midnight only me, Simon and Darren were left, tired and sleepy and trying in vain to think of people to ring up to invite round.
No comments:
Post a Comment