It's 6:40 p.m., Jeremy just went back, and I am in Gareth's (my) room at Westdorgan Road, and a fresh page, a fresh start to free myself from the mindless no-thought and the rush of empty headed drunks. Where do I go from here?
Much to say, so much so that I don’t even know where to begin. Words.
What I’m really trying to grasp and failing dismally to do so is the essence of the last few days. How to tell? What have I done but get up late, lounge around watching TV and usually go out in the evening to get drunk. . . .
A party at Mo’s . . . all the crew there, plus Pete’s sister Leila who is down from London and Tony too, from Gloucester (he’s living with Grant). I got drunk and stayed until four. Lee climbed onto the roof of the Tripoli restaurant below and was shouted at by the irate owner.
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