Runner

The confusion and complication over moving out is affecting us all, Barry in particular. All he wants to do is go home and forget about the shit hole at Jervis Terrace for a while. But he has no money even to do that. Barry, Pete and I are prepared to split up, and when I think about this possibility I think it might be a better option for me in the long run—I’ll have more chance to get things done. No houses or flats are available though, and there doesn’t seem a chance of there being so.

When I see other peoples’ places our unfortunate position hits home and makes me feel angry and frustrated. Why did I ever move in there? I must’ve been totally mad, or stupid. It’s been a disaster from beginning to end, not helped by the freeloading of John Turney, and the more I think about him the angrier I get—what a bastard! I haven’t seen him since he moved out.

For the first time since we moved in there are just the three of us living there. It’s ironic that we should be moving out so soon too. I’ve packed away all my books and taken what few pictures I had from the walls.

I’m looking forward to going home.

Today I got final confirmation of my exemption from the year abroad in a letter from the Dean and I couldn’t help a feeling of release—perhaps I’ll come to regret it in time, but at the moment I’m simply glad.

Barry and I also signed on for over the holiday period and tramped the miles to Lindsey and Susie’s but they were out, so we left a note and walked back along the promenade in freezing wind. The sea in turmoil. We stopped at Shelley’s. She was very surprised to see us and was in the process of preparing a Christmas dinner for her & her three flatmates, so we scavved a few crusts from her kitchen and left.

I drew out a fiver so we could go have a meal at a pizza place, but we ended up not having to pay anyway. We sat near the door, ate in a nervy silence and, while the waitresses were busy, dived for the door and ran like mad along Carpenter Street etc., collapsing with scorched lungs and dizzy heads in The Crown. We saved £3.00.

Colin from Crown Racing came round at teatime and told us the flat is now being advertised again by the University. We might even each get our £50 deposits back. We also had two blokes come round to look at the flat. In the evening, Lee left a note on our door giving details of a few places worth looking at, one for four people at a farm in Langridge Cliffs for £50 per week. I rang up a Mrs. Lincoln and she said that transport was essential. No, bicycles wouldn’t do, but it is a “very nice cottage.” I arranged to go see it at 4 p.m. tomorrow. It sounds quite promising but eight miles out is a long way and would involve all sorts of hassles and complications.

Lindsey called at nine-thirty and she and I walked to the bus. I came to Lee’s, which is where I’m writing this script now. He’s just discovered that his camera is missing (presumed stolen) and is in a slough of despondency. This has cast a darker light on the housing problem for him. I tried to reassure him and instil some absent levity but he would have none of it. “Sometimes there seems so much to be doing yet also so little – as if it’s pointless.”