Stomach

A stifling air of apathy is abroad at the moment. My own days are sliding into a stagnant rut, and I can’t seem to do anything about it.

Heady thoughts are a thing of the past.

It’s as if I’ve suddenly grown very impatient with certain people, no longer willing to tolerate them with easygoing comments. I should think I’m alienating quite a few people at the moment; the crew at No. 38 and at Gaveston Street, Lindsey, the people at Mo’s flat (who’ve never liked L. and I since Lee’s behaviour at their party).

I can’t help feeling at times that there is something wrong with me, although I don’t think there is. It’s nothing that can’t be overcome.

We've made a promise to John to be down at Masquerades again tonight, but at this moment I haven’t the stomach for it.