Letters

I got a long letter from Shelley this morning all about her flat mates who she doesn’t really get on with. "They do not approve of our plans concerning hash & speed!" she writes, and copies a description from a letter Rowan has sent to Katie about a “religious idiot” she knows who:

[G]oes about wearing ‘slacks,’ courtelle sweaters and wind cheaters with presumably a thermal vest and high drawers on underneath. He is chubby and I suspect without a cock. No, I reckon he has a cock, strictly for peeing but no gonads [balls]. On the other hand, he could be troubled by erections right, left and centre and premature ejaculations so that he has to soak his drawers while saying his prayers.

 Says Shelley: “Typical of Rowan, always thinking of the sexual side of people! Oh – I hope your mother doesn’t see this!”

I’ve felt pretty bored with myself and my surroundings today and I’ve been on my own for much of the time, but it's now 4 p.m. and Dad, Mum and Nanna P. have just returned and the dining room resounds to chatter and brass band music. Stifling!

Grant rang asking me if I wanted to go out for a drink tonight, but I declined as I’m going instead to see Lester Bowie in Whincliffe. Perhaps, in answer to Shelley’s asking how I’m going on at home, I can say that today I got my first hints of the old boredoms setting in.