She knows you know she knows

I sometimes find myself liking John, yet at others I dislike him for the way he pins me so thoroughly to the wall with his words.

Last night, he and Del (who returned on Wednesday) slept on a mattress in my room and before they fell asleep John kept asking questions: “How often do you think of sex?”; “Do you wank?”; “You fancy Lindsey, don’t you? She knows you do, and she knows that you know she knows, but her conditioning as a woman prevents her from asking you to bed . . .” and so on. He was in a manic mood earlier, leaping about and constantly cracking one-liners. I don’t think Mo likes him very much. Today, he and Del have at last set out in search of somewhere to live.

After a talk with Guy on Wednesday evening at Masquerades, I’m now certain that switching to Art History would be a bad idea. As a result, I’ve been a lot more positive about my course and I’m actually enjoying doing the work. I spent the entire afternoon today making notes for Monday’s Black Americans tutorial. Pete was a bit pissed off at his lack of motivation, and at teatime walked out in a sulk to buy a bottle of whiskey. Barry is messing about with his synth at this moment and Del and John are still out.

Cecil Parkinson finally resigned today over the ‘scandal’ of his pregnant secretary Sarah Keays, sanctimonious statements of support from Thatcher and colleagues still ringing in his ears. Thus the grey-faced guardian of Tory morality bites the dust. He’s finished, and I’m pleased he’s met the end that he has. If I were S. Keays, I’d have the baby in London and name it Cecil Jr. or Cecilia, lest he tries to sweep it under the carpet—but maybe that would be too cruel on the kid.