Saturday, March 24, 1984


Heavy rain all night, Alex’s room awash, the water dripping through the gaping hole in the ceiling into Pete’s room below and even managing to penetrate as far down as Ben’s room on the ground floor. By morning a patch of damp had appeared on my wall. The roof is our most pressing concern at the moment.

The weather broke in the afternoon, and while it was sunny, Alex, Ben and I filled the gaps between the lats on the inside of the roof (through which streamed sunlight) with pieces of plastic bags, painting over the lot with Aquaseal. We also made a temporary repair job on the roof above Alex’s room.

But when the darkness came and with it sheets of rain and wind, steady drips of water could again be seen all over the house. I worry about the possible effects on the electrics. Pete’s ceiling is a mess, paper hanging off in strips and the entire surface stained with black spots and discolourations, but at least the small but ominous patch of wet on the wall of my room seems to be drying out.

Ade came round this afternoon and later Pete turned up breathless with the news that a policeman had called at Jervis Terrace with an urgent request from Barry’s Dad that he ring home immediately. So Ade spent an hour driving round Watermouth trying to get hold of Barry. His Mum is already ill and immediately we could only think the worst.

Any attempt to marshal a coherent pattern of thought or the thread of a dominant idea seems impossible at present. I’m in a useless, non-productive frame of mind. Words come slowly and indistinctly, a grammatical nightmare. Chaos. Boredom and triviality seem to be the two “ultimate truths” which regulate my mind at present, and everyday preoccupations snuff out any chance of meditation towards a specific end.

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