Friday, October 8, 1982
Last night we laid around in the kitchen until the early hours talking and drinking cider and listening to Alex, the long haired lad in dungarees and baggy yellow jumper who's from Cambridge. He held forth about the Cambridge drug scene: he’s been smoking dope all week, as most people here seem to. Everyone seems to have packed twice as much exploration and excitement into their eighteen years as I have, and our discussions are eye opening, a revelation, a whole new world to me. I sit silently, feeling painfully naïve. . . .
This morning Alex asked me if I wanted to go mushrooming with him, so four of us trudged up into the fields behind the University. We walked slowly, scanning the ground, but had no luck. I was only wearing pumps and my feet got sodden. The countryside around here looks good though: there's a big lake down in the valley over the other side of the hill.
Since then my day has wandered along indeterminately. I feel almost like a child in the presence of grownups who've done things while I’ve sat about waiting for something to happen. At least I'm making friends.
I'm starting to realise the significance of Dad’s comment: “It may all seem so unimportant. . . ."