Saturday, October 23, 1982
Question your spoons
I'd been intending a quiet night in doing work but as ever, I got embroiled in more after dark madness.
I nipped down to the Westway Loop Bar, bought a bottle of cider, and ended up at a party at No. 13 Rousseau, which was crowded but sedate, people standing about talking in groups, etc. I climbed out of the window to look for Alex who'd gone off somewhere with Downstairs Ian and a few others. I ran along dark paths and cut my hand trying to climb back in through another window, looking in on the brightness and people smoking. I eventually managed to get in, but nearly killed myself in the process. Then everyone left for Wollstonecraft's second-floor kitchen for hot-knives. Alex did the honours, shouting “Who’s next? Black? Leb? Rocky?”
I can’t now remember the exact sequence of events and rooms: everything weird and unreal. . . . Downstairs Ian out of his head (on mushrooms I think), creeping around under the table while we creased up; in Alex’s room helpless with laughter at nothing at all, Pete gibbering insanely and singing "Ooh look, there goes Concorde again!” in a shrill and incessant tone while Alex opened and closed an umbrella he’d found on the train. It all got so out of control that it got slightly frightening.
Some ape in headband and specs from Taylor started dropping bottles out of the window so we told him to fuck off, but minutes later he returned donned up in denim jacket and studs and carrying a huge chain, acting casual as if asking for a cigarette. I threw a spoon at him. Downstairs Ian rushed in and out of Barry’s room, each time more insane than the last . . . I got a brief glimpse of Rowan’s frightened night-clad figure cautious at her doorway. Shelley came in to the kitchen later, stern-faced and silent. We kept the entire corridor awake, I'm sure.
I've spent the (sunny!!!) day recovering, and now it's teatime I'm starting to perk up again. All these pages and pages of script. To what purpose?