Barry, Guy, Lee and I went into Debdenshaw and bought some food and rented a video, Friday the Thirteenth, Part Two. We watched this tale of multiple murder and butchery with some enjoyment. I also received the cheering news that Athletic had beaten Purswell 2-0.
Barry’s ‘party,’ not billed as such but destined to become one, attracted a fair number of people, I would say about twenty. Pete and his London friend Tony arrived at teatime, and various other old faces and new made their entrance throughout the evening, including Barry’s friend Phil (how I like him!), carrying his wisdom like an awkward and solemnly intense schoolboy. His loneliness and isolation seemed etched deep into his long, sombre face. Patrick carries his insights and wisdom in an altogether more arrogant way. There’s a lot to dislike about him.
I didn’t really talk to anyone, and it seemed as if I was apart and unable to bridge the gulf separating me from everyone else. I couldn’t summon the necessary energy or commitment to actually talk, and I couldn’t escape a sense of futility and meaninglessness. I endured the conversation and the laughter and the dope and drink and didn’t really feel excited or sad or anything particularly . . . I was just there. Lee kept to himself.
The onset of the new year wasn’t acknowledged by anyone—it came and went and we were none the merrier (or sadder) for it.
I dragged myself on until four a.m. and then I found a bed and tried to go to sleep, but Phil sat at my bedside and talked to me. Then Barry came up too and we all talked about our mutual realisation of the need for change in ’84. It should be a ‘make-or-break’ year for me. I’ll know by the end of this year if I really am incapable of any fruitful form of commitment and resolve or if I’ll be destined to follow this course to its mundane conclusion. I must know.
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