Poppy heads

Lee rang at dinnertime to say he was back in Watermouth.

He came round and we went into town, back to the pier. He confessed to having the same anti-climactic feeling on returning I do. “I expected it to be really good”!

Instead he’d got back to a dark and empty house with no one about. I feel the same when I go back to Easterby and this merely confirms again the truism that Happiness is in Anticipation.

Back at Maynard Gardens Lee and I worked ourselves up over Alex and his punk-hippy friends who are turning the Grey House into a pig sty. In the kitchen we found the pathetic remnants of their attempt to boil poppy heads and make narcotics. Down in Ian’s basement room (which he’s cleaned, painted and filled with bed, books and belongings), we found the Minolta ciné camera Lee was going to sell to Gav, minus the lens cover, the lens all greasy and finger smeared, the camera body speckled with droplets of white spray paint.

This increased our anger, but nothing came of it, and I went to the Frigate. I retreated swiftly at the sight of John Turney, Barry and Guy: I couldn’t bear to speak to them and put up with their usual repartee, so I went home to ring Mum to wish her a happy birthday. . . .