Sunday, November 7, 1982
After we got back from Watermouth last night, we tried to drink away Guy’s troubles at Westway Loop Bar, but for Guy they loomed large and gloomy. Shelley was in a strange and silent mood, not morose but smiling secretively as though she really had one over on us. She said she’d drunk a half-litre bottle of sherry earlier that night and blacked out, and so when we left the bar we went back to her room to finish it off. She laid on the bed with the same attitude, just not herself.
Soon everyone was being shrill and lunatic in the kitchen. We scrounged together £15 from various sources to buy some Nepalese oil from Jamie who’d showed up downstairs, red-eyed and absolutely stoned. Events reached a crazy climax – a tablecloth was burned and Shelley started smashing plates. We found her standing in the kitchen smiling strangely at us as if to say “Look what I’ve done—I don’t care!”
It must be this place – it is getting to us all. What can I say but that this weekend has emphasised even more how insane is the life we all lead. One day I'll look back at what I've written and not believe it.