Sunday, July 17, 1983

Black dog

I had a hard uncomfortable night on the floor, and I woke up to a thunder storm rumbling a retreat across the grey dawn. I got a lift back to Farnshaw in Jeremy’s boss’s Mercedes: Jeremy works a weekly gardening job at a £110, 000 house in Keddon. I got home at eleven.

I reread what Lee had read in my journal, from last August, a description of Claire’s soap smell. Mortifying! I couldn’t help the hot flush that crept into my face. These words are too dangerous to leave lying around for all to see.

I’ve spent the day nursing a sore head and doing fuck all. I blew £6-£7 last night and didn’t even get drunk. In the evening Lee rang, a guilty, conscience-stricken tone in his voice: “I’ve just remembered what I did . . . I’m going teetotal from now on.”

Thunder and rain returned after tea. The weather has broken and now it’s cloudy skies and cool breezes.

What a fucking waste of time all this is.

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