Yesterday fairly routine, just as I’d expected, and later Stu and I trekked out to the Indian takeaway on Wickbourne Road. We went to the Westdorgan at nine, and I was in bed by 1 a.m. . . .
Went to University at one, a tutorial, and so it begins again, this weekly bind of self-recrimination, baulking at the boredom entailed in reading Faulkner—so dull. Then into town and Lee’s for a cup of tea.
P. Monmouth told me he was “going to be an artist” in the commercial sense of the word, making big money selling artworks to the gallery fraternity, the fur coats and bow ties who queue nightly at places like the Barbican. Lee has hopes of doing the same with his 360-degree pinhole photography. I will make my fortune writing hardcore porno novels.
Later Lee and I partook of £2.50-worth of sulphate and the buzz we felt walking along the seafront gave way to leaden-limbed torpor and an overwhelming fatigue by the time we got back to Westdorgan Road.
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