Paraffin brain

I took my books back to school in the morning, a whole box-full for English alone. It was a long drawn out performance, with forms to sign, money to pay out (for a lost text) and hanging about waiting for non-existent teachers. School was deserted.

Up in the common room that familiar air of suffocating stillness and quiet was made worse by the sunny weather. Mr. Flatters trailed prospective 3rd year middle school kids to and fro, making sarcastic asides to me and using me as a cautionary example to them. I felt odd, thinking how grown up I must look to these kids and yet once, not so long ago, it was me who looked up at the 7ths. I don’t really belong any more.

Grant called round after Tesco and we took a bus to Royden. We wandered about for a while searching vainly for the Funtime Bar, and eventually we had to ask directions. Funtime is quite small, usual night club look of lights and mirrors, the bar a soft yellow glow, up one end a polished wood dance floor and a small stage already packed with amps and equipment.

We sat at a table. The place was empty apart from two blokes in their thirties at the bar, two barmaids (one in fishnet stockings and suspenders) and the support band, decked out in sleeveless T-shirts and long spiky hair low over face at front, leather jackets, studded belts. After an hour the audience dribbled in, leather leather everywhere, studs, bandolier belts, tight trousers, not an unspiked hair in sight. We watched, waited, and drank cider.

The support band had some long un-prounceable name and were pretty forgettable on the whole, and it wasn’t long before The Nightingales themselves stepped up to the stage. They were all very unassuming to look at, just ‘normal’ type blokes, the vocalist stocky and well-built. With his jacket, shapeless trousers, thick black hair and NHS specs, he reminded me of Grant.

They didn’t go down well but I enjoyed their stuff, which was Fall-influenced, although less noisy, more tuneful and varied. Their best number was “Paraffin Brain” which I’d heard before. I started to jig and shake my leg as I stood by the bar but after a few ciders I was fluidly waving my arms and rolling my legs until I was finally told to get out on the dance floor to join the three others dancing (including Grant). I quite enjoyed it. I’ll have to get a record.

We left at twelve and walked back through silent orange black suburbs and streets.

Perhaps I try too hard writing this and that's why I think it sounds so forced and contrived.

Fed through

I didn’t get up until eleven. It was a lazy day from then on and I did nothing at all apart from watch soccer on TV. Argentina lost to Italy and England drew 0-0 with W. Germany in a dour tactical battle.

I’m still angry that my painting got thrown away. I thought that it was one of my better efforts and it's such a waste. Mum said it’s as if now they’re done with us they couldn’t care less; we’ve been fed through the machine and now they're just not interested.

I was bored all day and it's like I don’t know where to begin. This holiday needs to be a time of mental stimulation and experimentation, but I hope I don’t drift into my old rut of semi-fearful torpor.

Grant rang in the evening. Late on I got out my 60mm telescope and set it up on the damp lawn. The half-moon was so spectacular, plus I saw three of Jupiter's satellites and two faint cloud belts.

Angel of enlightenment

My final exam’ went quite poorly; I certainly didn’t do well. My four questions were on the Russo-Japanese war, the October revolution and Marxism, the effects of the civil war on the CPSU and an assessment of Trotsky as an “angel of enlightenment.” I blundered in my Marxism essay, writing 3½ sides but not mentioning the October revolution until the third page. I also forgot about “Bloody Sunday” when I was writing about 1905. . . .

I sat in the common room for the last time; Claire was there, but there was a grey atmosphere all around, punctuated only by mundane conversations and bored laughter. I felt glad to be free but no great sense of release: a slight sadness pervaded most of the afternoon.

I found out that my picture for the Art exam' has been destroyed because I didn’t collect it on time.

Ten thousand things

Mum and Dad were off on their hike by nine, and I rang Grant, spending a pleasant half-hour or so talking while lying on my back in the hallway, my legs lazily stretched up the stairs. I know I’ve said this before, but there’s so much to be optimistic about, if only I make an effort.

Grant and I are going to see The Nightingales next Wednesday and there's books to read, hikes to go on, trips to London, to Edinburgh . . . I want to start painting and to get the Moody Street newsletter. There's this Buddhist thing too, so many things. . . .

I can't get back into Russian history. Janet and Trev called round with Michael at half-six.

Strange ways

The weather finally broke overnight and I got up to sun and cloud-blue skies.

Mum and Dad left after more post-mealtime despair and conflict (with Dad). They left me in the dining room to work. Ha ha. Finally, in the late afternoon, I ground into action and read various essays while lying on the floor.

Andrew rang; the threatened rail-strike is jeopardising his Denmark trip which is supposed to begin July 10th.

I didn't feel anything particularly strongly. Tomorrow I’m tempted to go hiking with Mum and Dad but revision anxieties wouldn't let me enjoy it. . . .

In a strange sort of way I feel content.