Life and death

Yet another day to add to my immense ‘I did nothing’ list. I am so so weak-willed, lethargic and lazy. Do I want to pass these exams or not? I don't deserve anything for my piteous, sloth-like stagnant ways.

Lee called round at one hinting that he needed help in retrieving a vital Geography file locked up at school: he’d tried ringing the caretaker but he was out, so he clambered up onto the school roof with a screwdriver while I lounged on the grass “keeping watch.” It was sultry, overcast and hot. We were both amazed at how easy it was for him to gain entry, drop in and climb out again. School almost deserves a burglary.

In the South Atlantic, 16 marines are dead in an attack on Goose Green and Port Darwin. It’s so unreal. As we live out our undisturbed existences, barely ruffled by death, out there in the Falklands all those men are suddenly dropped into it. Bang! It’s war. The Argentine Air Force are mounting brave but suicidal attacks with a 60% loss rate.

The Pope greeted by joyous scenes in Liverpool, York, and Edinburgh. Who said religion was on the way out?

I haven’t done a stroke of work since Mum and Dad left on Saturday.

The sickness of apathy

It was another hot day. Grant came mid-afternoon just as I was finishing watering everything outside. We passed our time in predictable fashion, playing records and talking. Grant laughed as the Art Ensemble screeched and squawked, his red shiny face split by a yellow-tooth grin. We lounged in the front room in the sun, watching the tortoise (he kept calling it a “turtle”) and drinking cider. I felt quite light and eye-loose and Grant said he felt the same.

He stayed until nine-ish. Lee came round an hour or so before he left.

I didn't do any work again. The sickness of apathy. I’d better start thinking about Poly’s.

Kicker boots

Mum and Dad went on holiday to a Calverdale caravan this morning. Everything was bright and sparkly sun-warm as they left and I felt sad about not going, about being marooned alone for a week. It’s at these times of self-indulgent pity and loneliness that this diary comes into its own. These words are safe, knowable and offer a tangible link with all that's gone. . . .

Simon and Grant rang: Simon invited me to his place to help consume a 72-pint £30 barrel of Tetley’s; Grant juts wanted to talk, but he’s coming over tomorrow afternoon.

I set off for Simon’s at quarter-to-eight and bought four bottles of cider on the way. There were a handful of people at his house–Geoff Dixon, Sean Tracey, Philip Barker and a young teenage kicker-booted girl. Simon was there with his friend Darren Hawksworth, the latter in battered, embroidered flared jeans, sweatshirt, beads, his face sharp and hidden behind long dark hair. He was quiet, unassuming and easy to get on with, and he's a jazz-rock fan. He recommended Brand X's Livestock. I ran back home and got a few records and we listened to them and drank and talked and then set off to Moxthorpe for a Chinese. We were loud and anti-social on the way down, screaming and shouting and making comments to innocent bewildered (and annoyed) passers-by.

By midnight only me, Simon and Darren were left, tired and sleepy and trying in vain to think of people to ring up to invite round.

On having no head

I was supposed to meet Lee outside the library at ten but he didn’t turn up. I left after getting out On Having No Head by D. E. Harding and walked back home along Musgrove Road, hemmed in on one side by the dark grimy façade of Hardwick’s Mill, on the other by a long decaying row of shop frontages, litter strewn pavement, here and there piles of rubble. A certain something about Lockley, a rawness, an unflinching honesty, almost as if the true heart of the city can be seen and judged and experienced there. No pretence; these places fascinate me.

In the afternoon Mum and Dad drove me to the Tesco in Nunstead for my job ‘interview’ which took place in a white sterile office with flickering neons high above the brightly lit supermarket aisles visible through a wide one-way mirror window. I had to wait with a pitsy butterfly feeling in my stomach, my heart thudding, a constant bustle in the office corridors outside, doors squeaking open and shut incessantly.

In comes Mr. Brace–mid thirties, balding, neatly-suited, hard no-nonsense features, clipped tones—and at first he seemed a bit hesitant about the job offer because I’ll be leaving in October and “we like to make sure people will be here a minimum of 6 months.” He was about to leave it at that but suddenly asked me to come in next Wednesday at 4.45. “Mrs. Wilson recommended you in preference to other candidates . . .” Fourteen quid a week.

At home, over tea, I was suddenly filled with gloom and depression at the the thought of my future. I don’t know why. Mum: “It’ll all turn out alright, lad.”

I did a bit of work in the evening and at ten nipped down to Harvey’s for Carol Lancaster’s 18th birthday party. Lee was there in trilby and bowling trousers and round dark specs. I didn’t stay long: Claire glided around before me, a faint echo of the past. . . .

General studies

My first ‘real’ ‘A’-level, General Studies in two installments. Paper one was from nine to twelve with the hardest sections on maths and languages. I was mostly just guessing and answered a question about communications changes in the last 400 years.

During the hour break I rang Tesco: the Saturday job was gone, and only the three-evenings-a-week position was left, so I arranged to see ‘em tomorrow. Then back for the next three hours of the exam.

I enjoyed answering multiple choice questions and writing the essays on the arts; I wrote one on modern ‘classics,' choosing Les Demoiselles D’Avignon, Lichtenstein’s Wham!, and Kerouac’s On The Road. The other essay addressed whether Hitler was a “great man.”

Mum and Dad were in a good mood and went out for a walk leaving me to watch the Cup Final Replay. Peter and Tim interrupted me and nagged me into going to the Rising Sun. We stopped round at Simon Dyson's before the pub (he was all muscle bound), and spent a crude evening watching the end of the Final in the TV room. Spurs won 1-0. We bought fish & chips on the way home and called back at Simon’s to ogle his £130 Fender bass.