Heavy

I read Biswas until two-thirty in the morning, and so got up late. Nanna P. was reading a story in yesterday’s paper about plans for shooting looters in the event of a nuclear war and said, “I can’t understand it. If there’s a God and we’re said to believe in him why is he letting it happen?” It’s easy, but I couldn’t bring myself to tell her. There isn’t a God and never has been.

She was picked up by Uncle Kenneth at dinnertime and after that I watched the Test match or just sat about upstairs. There was something heavy and strange about today.

Iranian President Rajai and the Prime Minister were killed in a bomb blast yesterday; Iran is crumbling into blood. No doubt Khomeini will order retaliatory executions of left-wing guerillas. Bang bang.

Robert rang. The cat is in a really bad way.

Phases

I felt in a bit better mood today and worked on my Cubist essay until Grant came in the afternoon. He brought the Velvet Underground & Nico with him and we listened to records until seven-thirty when he went. He seemed to like An American Prayer. I felt good, Claire a long way away for once.

After Grant left I carried on writing about Braque and Picasso. I got interested–then excited–as I grew familiar with the different phases of their art. I finished late and felt as if I’d rounded things off neatly, precisely. But I couldn’t help thinking about Claire again. She was on the ‘phone no doubt.

Game

I had a horrible night for some reason, and hardly slept; I felt queasy with stomach pains and a headache. I woke up feeling depressed, a depression which continued all morning. I read A House for Mr Biswas.

Robert arrived for the match at quarter-to-two with the news that his cat George was knocked over by a car last night and is acting weirdly. Robert seemed subdued, but was back to his normal self after the match. Before going out we I heard that Boycott got his 21st Test century.

At Cardigan Park there was a smallish crowd and we both noticed how good natured everyone seemed and the unusual number of middle-aged/elderly blokes and families in the ground. There was a feeling of real optimism. The game started well, Athletic mounting a few good attacks and the spectators really behind the team, but typically we allowed Holmeshaw a cushy goal, Hudson dropping a cross. All seemed lost until Newlands lunged the ball into the net to equalise but Holmeshaw went back in front with a good goal. 1-2! Athletic struck back instantly, and Newlands made it 2-2 at half-time. Really exciting but I didn’t like the uncertainty and tension involved.

A roar greeted the lads as they came out for the second half, which was played at the same hectic pace. The referee was absolutely crap, awarding ridiculous decisions and whistling shrilly at the slightest excuse. Holmeshaw played physically, but Athletic’s winner was one of the best goals I’ve ever seen; really well worked diagonally from the left, on to Pattison’s foot and whammed into the top corner of the net from at least 30 yards out. All Athletic from then on, Holmeshaw on the defensive, and we deserved victory.

Obscured by clouds

It was a grey day to begin with. I went into Easterby and bought jeans and trainers and then worked in the Library on my English essays all afternoon. I went into HMV, saw Pink Floyd’s Obscured By Clouds and couldn’t resist; a bloody stupid, mindless thing to do, not thinking at all. It cost me five pounds! I saw Angela in town with her boyfriend; she didn’t see me, I dodged into the bus queue.

God, I’m really knotted up inside. I feel like tearing everything up, throwing everything away, telling everyone to “piss off,’ starting all over again. I’d just like to make a clean break but I expect nothing would change. But I couldn’t. I hate this feeling in my stomach, this ache of restlessness. What can I do? I just feel like . . . well, I don’t know what I feel like, but I know I just detest my situation at the moment.

Irrevocable

Another hot day in the eighties. I started my Cubist essay on Picasso and Braque before Lee arrived. At twelve-thirty I heard the gate go and Mum shouted for me and I told her to send him up and who should peer round the door but Claire! I suppose inside I was elated.

A rush of conversation, talking her about her summer camp. It was good to see her but my nervousness and excitement or whatever was again apparent. I was actually trembling! It got really stuffy in my room and so we decided to go out. She asked me down to her place. Lee never showed up. On the way down I felt more at ease, and towards the end I felt quite OK and confident. She told me about her fledgling romance with a lad from the camp who she spends ages on the ‘phone with; inside I was all screwed up and frustrated. Her Mum told me about a job.

I left at five feeling anti-climactic. Pointless, self-indulgent analysis on the way home. What is it about me? Jeremy rang. . . . I'm sliding irrevocably into the mould once more.