Disjointed

I haven’t been out or done anything in the last few days except work and sleep and fool about with Lee and Barry. I wrote another essay today, and so am tolerably pleased with myself. Tonight’s effort was written at the library during the afternoon and copied up this evening when everyone else had gone to the Frigate. Even Lee went along. I really haven’t felt the urge to go out. The will isn’t there and I can’t see any reason to force into being what doesn’t exist in the first place. The social pleasures will call me back; I won’t be reclusive for ever.

Breathing space is what I need, although disinterest seems my lot. I’ve spent £1.40 since Sunday, and today I got a cheque from Mum and Dad. Dad included a copy of The Spinners Review in which was printed Robert’s article "Why I bother with Easterby Athletic."

I’ve been sleeping ten and eleven hours a night. I go to bed at eleven-thirty and wake at one. I go to bed at three and still wake at one.

This is very disjointed as ideas spring into my mind haphazardly. I’ve written to Grant and invited him down whenever he cares to come. I look forward to the idea of him here.

This has been a depressing effort.