Tuesday, January 25, 1983


This RCP conference in Whincliffe looms. A decision presses itself in on me. What should I do? I’ve told Barry I will go, but I'll have to endure all the heavy dialectical diatribe, the leftist posturing, the sectarian sabre-rattling: I feel I can’t face it. I could stay here - I want to - and at one point I almost told Barry I wasn’t going, but now Penny tells me that Lindsey wants me to go as otherwise she’d be the only non-convert there. . . .

An example of how emotional I've been these days: after returning from yet another boozy night out at Westway Loop (God, I’ve spent so much on drink this last week: I’ve been drunk nearly every night), I found myself in my room with Penny and Shelley. Shelley: “How are you doing?” Me: “Isolated.”

But then Marco and Russ blundered in and that was that. I must’ve fallen asleep because I woke up on my bed covered by a blanket and everyone was gone.

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