I've nothing to write about. Today was spent pleasantly enough, talking with Andrew about Denmark and listening to his jazz records, inbetween times rueing my lack of application or effort at reading, painting, etc.
I wrote a letter to Claire but my troubles sounded petty and selfish so I threw it away. It was hot, the afternoon hazy and stifling, but after Tesco there was a definite whiff of winter in the air, cold city smells in the fog lingering round empty yards and streets.
University is so near! I've so much to organise yet it's scarcely ever mentioned.