Sunday, October 7, 1984


It’s a routine Sunday afternoon—fading light, Bullseye on TV and no doubt a curry later, the shadow of tomorrow’s new term never far from my thoughts. I’ve been watching a Greta Garbo film, The Fall and Rise of Susan Lennox. Athletic have beaten Holmeshaw Vale 5-1.

I am in Gareth's room, the fire is on and the dusk is drawing in. He's due back any time, although I have a sneaky idea that he may not bother. I have four-and-a-half thousand words of an extended essay on the “interpretation of the Beats as a social phenomenon” to invent and type up and until Wednesday to do it. I have put it off and put it off but now it can't be avoided.

Term starts tomorrow: I haven’t done any work for that, let alone my exam commitment Stu has two exams on Tuesday and Thursday, Barry one exam and a dissertation. Lindsey hasn’t even attempted her dissertations. She seems resigned to being kicked out.

John Turney was round here earlier full of his verbal victory over Z. and co. the other night. “I hate that lot,” etc. I suppose this is his ‘justification’ for smashing four holes in Z’s wall. Lee was here too, remorseful, and he keeps suggesting we make amends, presumably by mending the damage.

JT has an envious ability to talk to people and to strike at their very centre, pinning them at the end of his verbal fork. He does this to me all the time. Every time now when he’s here he slips in references to Lindsey fucking Jason which make her visibly writhe and curl inside. 

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