Bare bones

Last night I was glad to get away to go see If . . .  for the second time, with Gareth, Stu and Pete. It was as good as I remembered, although Gareth found it “tedious.” Malcolm McDowell is brilliant.

After the film we went to a nearby pub’ and then Stu, Pete and I went for a Chinese. When we got back to the pub Gareth was talking with a friend and his girlfriend from Wiltshire who live nearby. We got back at about midnight after acting the goat on the station platform at Wessex Road.

Today Barry, Pete and I bought a gram of methedrine off Jamie for £14. Jamie said it was “smoother than speed, less poky” and used the analogy of matured whisky vs. Sainsbury’s brand crap.

I planned on writing at great length today but for some reason I just seem to have run out of steam. The last few days have been wearying and I haven’t done any work and I dread the thought of exams: I’m frustrated that my learning is disintegrating because of lethargy. I have to read Portrait of A Lady for Thursday but, needless to say, I haven’t even looked at it yet.

When the surrounding flesh of memory has melted away from around the bare bones of this narrative I shall curse my lack of detail, lack of inspiration and lack of inventiveness.