Rictus

I couldn’t sleep at all so to pass the time I wrote down everything I can remember about my childhood. It was cold grey dawn when eventually I fell asleep.

Robert arrived mid-morning; he's staying the weekend because he's going to a stag party at a rented house up Greenhead Lane. He's reading Boswell's Life of Samuel Johnson and his enthusiasm is so infectious it makes me feel quite happy. Mum's in a real depression however; a culmination of things I suppose. She sat out on the lawn in the sun looking totally miserable.

Before I came to bed I watched News at Ten when suddenly, without warning, photos of the brown skinned grinning corpse face of dead nurse Helen Smith were flashed up on the screen. It shocked us all and then the next story featured shots of a fingerless fireman with toes grafted on to his bandaged stumps. Horrific. In cold and appalled tones, Mum told us she's heard there's been a brain transplant in Sweden or somewhere.

My paints finally arrived today. All I could think about was how, at £45, they're expensive for what they are. Lee and I are joining Steven Brown tomorrow for a pub crawl round town followed by an all-night do at Darren Harriman’s house which sounds as though it will be insane.