Sunday, May 20, 1984

This morning I dreamed I moved into another squat only to discover it was like my room at home, but at the same time, it wasn’t my room. The implications are too obvious to be commented on. I also dreamed I was grabbing big clumps of hair in my hands and cutting it crudely with scissors. Grant was there; we walked through a park that both was and wasn’t Woodhead Park . . ..

I finally wrote my vacation essay, lifting parts of it directly from an essay I wrote for my Black Americans tutorial last autumn. I cranked out all the familiar platitudes, glib clichés and ‘essayese’ phrases. I’m at Westdorgan Road and Stu is at his desk working on an essay about John Stuart Mill. Gareth watches Badlands downstairs in his room. Lindsey and Susie are out at the pub.

I’ve been here since two and it’s taken me four hours or so to spin out an essay that's seven sides long. God, I’m sick of the platitudes I use here, the dry dog-tired diary format!

Gav’s in Cambridge with Mandy and has been since mid-week. Alex—head freshly shaved save for a triangle of hair at the back (∆)—is scarcely ever at the Vicarage nowadays and is in London at the moment. Sarah and Barbara are never there either, although Sarah is a bit more than the other one. They’ve written ‘Lesbians Unite’ on the wall in Alex’s room and Animal Liberation leaflets litter Barbara’s room.

They’re all such stereotypes.

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