Keyless

I'd hoped to go to Watermouth Jazz Club last night, but as ever I was persuaded by Barry to stay for a quick drink, which turned into two, then three, and finally we bought more bottles for a party over in Rousseau. Goodbye jazz!

We bundled across to No. 31; I was fairly pissed already and fell over several times in bushes and on the grass. The party was red-lit and stiflingly crowded. I don’t recall much detail, just fragmentary memories of drinking gin from a plastic jug, climbing out through a window to lie on my back in a flowerbed because it was cooler there, rolling about getting blathered in mud, crunching about on on a flat gravel roof somewhere, peering in windows, getting shouted at and called “a prat” by voices below. . . . I sat alone, away from the party din, feeling terrible, sad, and regretful.

I got back to Wollstonecraft keyless and full of sick thoughts. I was so angry and frustrated, at myself more than anything else, and as I got into bed I cast my mind back to my somehow poignant trip in the misty dusk of autumn with Lindsey and cried.

It was 3.45 p.m. and drawing in dark when I got up today, feeling miserable and desperate about my disintegrating schedule. To add to it, Athletic lost 1-3 at Purswell. I spent the night in with Pete, Lindsey, Russ, Shelley and Barry in the latter’s room doing the usual until complaints about the noise drove us to Pete’s room where we lit joss-sticks, switched out the lights, and whirled them around and around in glowing red arcs. So silly but so much fun. Tasha(?) with twenties hairstyle from the top floor came down with a friend and we all ran around barefooted like lunatics.