Sunday, May 1, 1983


As I was writing this last night I was halted in mid sentence by a knock on the door. It was Gareth, Graeme and Susie who forced me out to Biko’s for a drink: Gareth and Stu hadn’t been to bed at all, had gone out to Watermouth, got pissed and had a good time until three drunken yobs had rattled ‘em, causing them to flee hastily. Gareth left his Dad’s borrowed watch behind. Stu was pretty drunk and lurched silently from room to bed.

At the bar I cashed a cheque and so commenced a morbid evening, my blackest so far.

Lindsey came with us to Biko’s. She was having a quick drink before getting ready to go out, and although nothing was said I knew who she was going out with. I couldn’t even bring myself to speak and sat instead in dark desperation drinking cider, Gareth cheerfully telling Susie about Berlin.

I didn’t want to be there when Lindsey left, so I went to the toilet and stayed there for a while. Sure enough she’d gone when I got back. Susie kept telling me to “cheer up.” She said I looked very pissed off and sad. 'Gareth asked if it’d help to talk.


I spied Marco sitting in the opposite corner with a couple of his Rousseau friends. His friend Roy walked in, left again, then came back in with Lindsey--I honestly find it hard to even set this down in such bald, unassailable fashion. They both sat down . . . I got up and left, as Gareth urged me to stay. Blundered back and cried like a baby. I couldn't help it!

Rowan and Shelley came in: they knew what was wrong but couldn’t help, only offer consolation and inescapable facts: “There's nothing you can do. She's going out with him.” I eventually regained some sort of composure and sat in crushed silence as Rowan and Shelley talked. “Everyone says he seems quite a nice bloke,” etc., etc. Gareth, Pete and Mo all tried to jolly me out of my gloom, but I went to bed at one full of morbid thoughts, and got a few hours of fitful sleep.

I woke up at six with an uncomfortable stomach: I haven’t eaten since Friday night. As I sat in the bar last night and stared out of the window I half-planned great destructive drinkings but now in the bleak light of the next day it seems like self-pity.

I spent the rest of the day shut in my room reading Herman Hesse feeling miserable and grey, unreal somehow. I ventured out to the library in the afternoon which didn’t make me feel any better. I can look at this and see it for what it is, quite simple, but the pain. . . .

I can’t bear to look back and read over what I’ve just written. . . .

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