Wednesday, July 14, 1982


I've been thinking lately that the constant, day-to-day recollection of events and the trivialities of how I'm feeling or not in this journal inevitably makes the writing here laboured, dull and overblown. Perhaps I should begin to write only when I feel inspired? But then I'd be scared I'd lapse all together.

If it's worth recording, then I read Lin Yutang’s The Importance of Living until Dad gave me a lift to Tesco in the torrential rain. On the way home I called in at Grant’s to collect my records that I’d left in haste last night and walked back through doomy dank woods.

The railways are on the brink of being shut down and their staff sacked. I listened to Mum’s pessimistic, fearful and frightened voice forecasting the country’s doom with a horrible feeling in my gut. Everything could collapse in chaos.

My new Doors album, though not as good as the first one, is haunting with its whimsical songs and twee tunes.

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