Thursday, September 6, 1984

An end to all that

Lee got back last night and I called round to see him.

He was noticeably quiet and subdued but seemed to perk up when out of the house. As we waited for the bus into Easterby he told me Ian has come back from Marrakech bronzed and sunswept, only to discover that Gav and co. had "borrowed" £150-worth of his dole money while he was away. The squalor of the Philip St. squat continues, as does Alex’s detention in police custody pending charges about the stolen skull.

Lee tentatively suggested we “find somewhere else,” which I’ve been advocating all summer—he’s always refused to consider this as he feels bad about leaving Mrs. Coldwater-Hicks’s son with the mess of Gav, etc. I just wish we’d crossed this bridge weeks ago as I’ve got the new term looming ahead with all still to do.

I feel overwhelmed.

On top of all this, Lee showed me a letter from Seeboard demanding either a guarantor or £90 to keep the electric for the top floor of the grey house. This seemed like the final straw, the effort needed to sort out the hassle just too much . . .  So we—Lee, Ian and I, and possibly Stu and Gareth—must find somewhere new and soon.

Lee’s brought the nicked oscilloscope up from Watermouth to flog. An end to all that. Our striped jersey, swag bag days are over, an odd feature of life at Jervis Terrace and the Vicarage, now gone in a new regime of moderation and stability.

I came home with Dad at three and telephoned Watermouth DHSS to see if I could sign on up here, spinning a yarn about needing to look after a sick relative. It worked, and now I don’t have to travel 600 miles just to sign a scrap of paper.

Dad seems to be in a better mood today, limiting himself to a single despairing tirade against the “evil and ugly” McGahey who “deserves to be hanged.” He speculates that McGahey is waging war on Coal Board boss MacGregor because of ancient clan differences—“I bet that’s it! I’ll bet McGahey’s a Campbell !” I couldn’t believe it.

I wore my recovered coat today—I’d given it up for lost. . . .

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