Penthouse plasticity

I finished the required work at about midnight last night; the essay mostly bullshit and empty hyperbole, but it didn’t turn out as poorly as I’d feared.

The heavens opened all day. Barry and I met Lee in Watermouth and we bought Mo a birthday present, a wicker shopping basket on pram wheels. We delivered it to her new address, 42A Castle Mount Court, a fourth floor flat in a new block ascending darkly into the mist, all lit with the glow from balconied windows. The flat that had inspired Barry to such enthusiastic praise disappointed me; although it’s undoubtedly comfortable and warm, it seems to lack the kind of personality that Ian’s place has—penthouse plasticity—although the view is impressive.

Pete has stayed with Mo since she moved in . . . Barry is full of noisy enthusiasm for the idea of moving into the three bedroom flat which is on the floor below Mo’s.

We left to go deliver invites for Mo’s party to Ian and co., and encountered them striding purposefully along Stoneways Road carrying firewood, candles and a cassette player, destined for the catacombs in Smith Square. They hardly gave us a second glance, a disinterested aside to Lee as they swept past with a remote air. So while Ian and Mick descended into the bowels of the earth, we partook of the pleasures of the living across the road.

Despondency, weary talk. I can’t face the cold, dirty misery of our prison, so I’m sleeping on Lee’s floor again.