Brains of the living

The thermometer on the landing is down below 70°F for probably the first time in ages. I got up at twelve to grey clouds and wet, windy weather: the rain streamed down from a flat colourless sky, a dull roar as it beat steadily against the roof. But gradually it slowed and stopped, the clouds broke, and the sun shone down on a glistening garden.

Minutes after I’d got downstairs, Mum and Dad got back from a walk up in Burndale: they told me that Robert has bought two bronze Buddhas for £50. I got up to find a postcard from Pete and a dole cheque waiting. . . .

Nanna B. is back in hospital for a sprained tendon, but Mum, Dad, the doctors and everyone else seem to think she shouldn’t be there. She lies red-faced and robust in a ward full of grey geriatrics at death’s door. Mum silently suffers her fears for the future, seeing only a vision of she and Dad burdened with the care of their crippled mothers: “It’s going to be hell,” says she with a long face.

Andrew rang at teatime to say he’s got an interview for a job next Thursday at twelve and he’s “nervously optimistic.” He sounded fairly content and I get the impression he’s having a good time in London. Tonight he’s going to see saxophonist Elton Dean at The Empress of Russia pub.

Whenever we watch the evening news a tense, pregnant silence settles on the room; Dad’s face is set in a mask of bitterness and anger, Mum’s in one of lined resignation. Tonight, the outrage and inquests over the downing of the South Korean 747 continue, the Russians admitting that “warning” shots were fired but they are preventing Japanese search parties from entering the crash area. It’s sad that the West’s anger can’t be expressed too strongly for fear of causing undue aggro with the USSR, and anyway the Americans will be after political mileage from this incident, for they’re not far behind the Russians in the murder stakes, after all. . . .

In Israel, Menachem Begin has gone and Shamir looks set to follow as leader. In Beirut, the fighting has died down, while in Chad it has just erupted again after a three-week lull. Just a typical day. . . .

After midnight I watched Archie Shepp backed by the Paul Hart Quintet on Channel 4’s Jazz programme. He did a version of “Yardbird Suite” which was too laid back and middle-of-the-road for my liking. He’s now more mellow and less frantic than in his angry days of old – I know which version I prefer. I haven’t listened to much jazz at all recently as I’ve been living on a staple diet of The Fall, Public Image and The Pop Group.