Pale blond

I took my record back and exchanged it for Waiting for the Sun, met up with Lee and went back to Castlebrigg playing fields. He’d put huge amounts of extra string on his kite so it flew to ridiculous heights and was hardly visible in the bright white sky. We spent most of our time chatting to Andrew Boyd who cycled past. Couples lay entwined in the grass all around us.

Grant 'phoned at seven, so I took the bus round to his house to discuss plans for our August visit to London; we're staying in a youth hostel at Hampstead Heath. We listened to a few records and then went up to the Albion in Ashburn. We did the rounds, ending up at the Magpie where a drunken old man slurringly insisted his hair was “pale blond” and not the grey that it clearly was. He leered at a woman in tight red cords and said loudly, “Cor, look at that, a red arse!” We only had a couple of drinks but sang loudly as though we were completely drunk.

I got home after samosas at the Nawaab and contemptuous looks from the staff at our snorting hilarity and silly voices.