Records I bought included: Dummy, Kristen Hersh Hips and Makers, Beethoven late quartets, Let Love In, Panic On (Madder Rose), Carnival of Light (Ride), Walk The Dog And Light The Light, Mars Audiac Quintet, Jan Garbarek/Hilliard,
Number One hits in the UK: Chaka Demus And Pliers with Jack Radics and Taxi Gang - Twist And Shout, D:Ream - Things Can Only Get Better, Mariah Carey - Without You, Doop - Doop, Take That - Everything Changes, A.F.K.A.P. - The Most Beautiful Girl, Toni Di Bart - The Real Thing, Stiltskin - Inside, Manchester United Football Squad - Come On You Reds, Wet Wet Wet - Love Is All Around, Whigfield - Saturday Night, Take That - Sure, Pato Banton - Baby Come Back, Baby D - Let Me Be Your Fantasy, East 17 - Stay Another Day

4/1/94: Pan's People retrospective - made me melancholic
5/1/94: I'm feeling melancholic and yuk today. I watched the 30th anniversary Top of the Pops last night, which made me a bit nostalgic, then a programme celebrating sadness and melancholia, then I woke up heavy, then I hauled myself up and lay down to watch a programme about Pans People. God, they were lovely. Sirens. Once you see them, you want them, and you can never get enough of them or really have them. So I feel sad, thick and melancholic. And my chest, while not as bad as yesterday, is still giving me grief. Oh, I am grieving. I am sad.
God, it's weird how things get to you! It's now just gone 5.00pm the same day and all that seems like a foreign time, another person. How come I was so affected by Pan's People this morning? I was really consumed by melancholia and a bleakness of outlook, despair for times gone by - and now I feel ok. No signs of the temporary psychosis that took me over! I tell you one thing, though, and that's this: One of the things about 1972 which is no longer true is that it was ok to fancy a woman just because she looked great. Girls liked to look sexy - you would never find a modern woman (and even having to say "woman" feels a bit over-politically correct to me now) trying to look like a "dolly bird". Girls wanted to look sexy, wear hot pants, you name it. It was ok and it was ok to say that a girl looked great. And boy oh boy, did Pan's People look great! Paul seemed a bit shocked that I should say that, and commented on how bad their dancing was, but Andrew understood. The dancing wasn't what mattered, it was what they looked like that mattered. And I fancied DeeDee and I don't mind saying that, and I would gladly go back to a time when that was alright. I wasn't being abusive, or sexist, I was just enjoying looking at very attractive girls who didn't mind being looked at!
One of the things which has been very evident over the last couple of days is a different atmosphere at work among myself and Andrew (Paul is possibly a little too young to remember a time before political correctness). We have been able to say, and acknowledge, that we find pretty girls very sexy. Andrew said the word "horny", and I even looked at a couple of girly calendars that a cafe user brought in. Paul was appalled (Good job Louise wasn't around)!
I struggle very hard to keep in check the part of me that longs for a time when there was no such thing as "politically correct", when it was ok to say that someone was "a smashing bird", and that was a compliment. When girls liked to look sexy! And I fell to thinking about whether women these days are aware of the effect that they may be having by not wearing attractive clothes. By wearing shapeless, unflattering clothes, or heavy Doctor Marten's boots, etc. But then, there was also a program on today about the expectations that society, and particularly the modelling world, has about the shape of women's bodies and the sort of things that women are being compared to - but I wonder whether that was actually the case? I don't know whether all women felt terrible if they didn't look like Pan's People, I seem to think not! Just that if they did, we were allowed to say so! Once upon a time it was not considered abusive or sexist to find a woman attractive, and to say so. Now, if a good-looking woman gets on the tube and sits opposite me, I have to pretend that I don't see, that I don't find her attractive. To her, to society, and to myself. And if I find myself consciously looking at an attractive woman, I feel guilty. Like I shouldn't (what- look at her? Am I supposed to find people invisible?)
You see, I come from a time when I could look at girls in magazines (Penthouse) and it was ok. Not something that only sexist beasts did! And it didn't mean that all women had to look like that, or that I wasn't interested in any that didn't! Oh, take me back to 1972, someone! But then of course, it didn't hurt that Carolyn did look like a PP - at least to me. My (fantasised) first vision of her in red hot pants and boots may not have been true, but it was possible - and she would have looked great!!!

19/1/94: Audrey came back to work after a couple of weeks off - and quit two hours later.
24/1/94: Chesty-anxiety pains again... for a couple of weeks now!
27/1/94: Locked myself out, went to Balham in my slippers and cardy in the rain.
FUCK. I went out to buy a pint of milk at 8.00 this evening, and as soon as I had shut the door I realised that I had locked my keys inside. It took about 15 seconds to realise that the only thing I could do was go to Balham and pick up my spare pair - luckily I had my work keys, these being on a different bunch. So I did. With no coat, and in my beach slippers, in the howling wind and occasional rain, I went to Balham. I just got back. It is 10.10pm. Fuck.
The journey, with no S3 and no glasses, gave me ample time to sit and fume, and reflect a bit. I like being an "Old" man (as opposed to a "New" man, I don't mean in age). I like being a bit sexist. Sarah told a story today about how Ray had said that someone had probably "found himself a new bird" and she replied "what, like a chicken?", and insisted that Ray refer to this person as a woman. This struck me as absurd, although Louise and Paul said "Right on, sister" or sentiments to that effect. And there were two really grim looking women on the tube, one with short-cropped blonde hair and one with dyed black plait/locks. They looked fucking stupid and ugly. I'm sorry, but I don't like women in fucking Doctor Marten boots! Mind you, I guess that anyone who has read very much of this journal will have twigged by now that my external persona and my inner thoughts often differ considerably! I had four years of therapy trying (among other things) to get rid of some of my feelings and thoughts about women and I reckon I've gone about as far as I can. What these people need is plenty of therapy to get rid of these silly ideas. A truly liberated woman wouldn't care if a bloke fancied her! And as for M (while I'm in moaning mode), the stupid bint won't drink out of the cafe mugs because "Those people" use them!
And while I'm on the subject of M, I don't think that Rastafarianism or Hinduism or Buddhism or Judaism deserve any more credibility than Christianity - how can Louise, or Sarah, be rather condescending about Christianity and God, when Sarah believes in fucking druids??? Fer chrissake...

2/2/94: Beethoven string quartets at the Wigmore Hall with Mame.
7/2/94: Went to hospital 5.30am with stomach pains. Playing DOOM!
Voltrol? Boltrol? painkiller. Dreamed I was on the loo in aunt Mary's house. Woke up, tried to go to loo but oh no feel terrible hav BAAAAD stomach pain. Really grim. After half hour and it getting worse I ring for l'ambulance (tirez pas). A kidney stone, passing through my intestine? Dunno, but went away as I lay on the table waiting for doc. Nurse took piss, blood pressure, pulse, temperature. Doc prodded and pronounced me ok. Gave me DRUG - Voltarol. Nurse gave it me in bum. North Middlesex hospital. Then I got bus home in slippers and took day off work - spent most of it (up to now, 15.15) in bed. On the other hand, I spent most of yesterday playing DOOM till I was dizzy. Fuckinamazin!
8/2/94: TORY MP IS FOUND DEAD IN STOCKINGS AND SUSPENDERS screams the Sun today. How about BROWNING GOES BACK TO WORK AFTER DAY OFF for a change, eh? Or BROWNING FUCKS UP COMPUTER IN FILE MANAGER COCKUP which was what happened last night. Basically, I had old copies of Config.sys and Autoexec.bat highlighted and I was going to delete them, but instead of pressing Del I pressed Enter. The screen went potty as it tried to execute both commands simultaneously, from within Windows, and then it trashed my entire Windows directory, half of Monkey Island 2, Winfract, and a few other bits and pieces. Shit. So I had to re-install Windows, Ami Pro and Approach, and when I went to bed last night I had managed to retrieve most of the rest of the missing subdirectories which were saved as lost directory clusters.

13 & 14/2/94: Training - dealing with difficult & disturbed behaviour.
20/2/94: Here at the Western world it's Sunday morning and this is gospel. It's bloody cold (how long does winter last these days?) and I'm freezing my tits off waiting for a tube at Seven Sisters. Ever since the 41 went yellow it's been crap and unreliable - I waited three hundred years for one last night at Tottenham Hale after buying my wall dimmer. No, stupid, it dims the light, it just fits on the wall. So. Going in to work laden with Cocteau Twins CDs to fire at Paul, who has never heard them. Garlands, Treasure, Victorialand and Four-Calendar Cafe - I think that's a representative sample! I was raped by aliens. No, really, I was. So I sold my story to the People. What else could I do? My belly is starting to bulge, I must be pregnant. Human or alien? How many heads will my baby have? Will I grow to love it, anyway? Gah. How come some pretty girls seem to end up with fat slobs? According to "Sex Talk" the other night, women don't get turned on by men's bodies in the same way as men do by women's. They were saying that it's the person who's in it that makes it sexy - or did I just hear it that way?

26/2 - 13/3/94: Annual leave. Ill, depressed.
13/3/94: Mothering Sunday, but she's away till this afternoon. On Radio 1, Danny Baker's audience have been destroying their partner's CDs: Dark Side Of The Moon got a breadknife, Elaine Paige Sings Queen got a lump hammer, a free CD from Burger King had six—inch nails driven into it, another CD was microwaved, two were shot with double-barrelled shotguns (one had previously been chainsawed)... oh it's really quite funny. Yesterday I did a bit of preliminary work on "the screenplay" - and I got a nice phone call from Simon inviting me to go and stay with him when I'm on leave in May. Sounds great!
Simon seems to be serious about this film idea, I don't know what he is hoping for from me! I don't know the first thing about writing a screenplay, although Syd Field's book is very interesting and helpful. Simon has also left me copies of the scripts for "Jefferson in Paris", the film he's starting work on next week, and "Frankenstein", the film he's just finished doing with Kenneth Branagh and Robert de Niro as the monster!

3/94: Begin work on the screenplay with, and without, Simon.
17/3/94: Fuck, I hate it when I have to stop doing something that I'm enjoying, and stuck into! In this case, rewriting "1stdraft.sam" so that I can print it as "2nddraft.sam". But I had to go to work - luckily, I was interrupted at quite an opportune moment, where I have to decide just what it is that Jeff sees in the English newspaper that necessitates some form of contact with home. Dunno, but if his dad dies then he'd have to get home as soon as possible, and we'd miss out on Steve's meeting with his mum - unless Steve carries on alone???
23/3/93: Going home. I killed Jeff last night. I may resurrect him, I don't know, but I think I needed to be able to make a definite ending of some sort. It also finally cut him loose from me, much as giving Steve three older children cuts him loose from Simon. I have to have control over these people, I have to make the behave in a way that suits me. But I would like to speak to Simon, in case I am going away from what he wants…
25/3/94: Let's see if I can write a bit today, it seems like quite a while since I did any at-length splurging in my diary. So, then - for the last week or two I've been thinking quite a lot about the screenplay, and wishing I could contact Simon. I killed Jeff a couple of nights ago but that seems a bit extreme and out of context with the rest or the story. I don't think it needs to turn suddenly into tragedy! I also reorganised a couple of speeches to make, I think, a stronger opening scene, but unfortunately this has meant that I now have only that one scene scripted. I've established that these two are at school, are in a band, have little worldly experience, hero-worship rock stars, and come from fucked up homes - as do most of their friends. Enough about the screenplay, already!
Isn't "Fable Of The Wings" a great album? Really good - the kind of album I'd like to play on, and the kind of band I'd like to be in. Ah, memories, dreams, reflections…

8/4/94: Bought AWE32 sound card - took it back a week later.
4/94: South African elections and Kurt Cobain's death.
Mother phoned yesterday to talk about her Hoover, which has broken. Did I know what was wrong? What do you think? She said "a bit has fallen off with a bang" - oh, yes, that sounds like a failure in the offboard timing section of the inspirating cronuter - maybe the whittle flange. I suggest connecting the honter cable direct to the Whittering valve, bypassing the cronuter altogether. If this works, simply re-engage the orgone sprocket a couple of whangs further along and switch the frotter unit to "manual". It's a botch job, but at least it'll get the carpet clean.
27/4/94: Stung by a wasp. Bastard!
Going to work for a "middle shift" - half past ten till six. My right hand is sore and a bit swollen, having been stung by a huge wasp while I was cleaning the flat yesterday. I’ve just changed trains. Victoria Pipeline. Vaseline. Fucking swollen hand where fucking wasp stabbed me with fucking Bowie knife. Can’t write, can’t clench fist. Streisand at Wembley tonight, but a bit too expensive for me. Drat. Reticulating splines… And why don’t my sweeteners dissolve in my coffee? That pisses me off as well.
2/5/94: A particularly horrible day at work...
Going to work, Bank Holiday Monday. Delays on the tube due to signal failure at Seven Sisters and the train being regulated in order to regulate the service. Due to earlier signal failure at Seven Sisters the Victoria Line is now running to all destinations. I'll fucking regulate you, ya wankers! Oh dear, here we go again... The poster opposite and above me proclaims "Salvation is found in Jesus, no-one else" and I just groan in dismay. Oh, fuck. Shut up and fuck off - and if one fucking beggar gets on this train with a piece of fucking paper with some diatribe on it, I'll hit her. Likewise any Irish bint with babe in arms sitting on the stairs outside the station… And no, my callousness has no bounds today. I am at work now, and I badly don't want to be - so I am hating everybody. Bloody R in his trenchcoat, a bunch of old codgers - what were these men like when they were younger? I mean, C, M, the bloke from ARP, and that lot? Once they were in their twenties - what can they have been like? And then, of course, there's fat pig D, who must always have been a fucking slob. I should have kept my mouth shut, here comes H. And what about P? I bet he was a right fucking bundle of laughs… Having said all that, I must also mention the tragedy of Peter Green, about whom there was quite a long article in last month's Mojo, and how I guess poor old B might have been like him once. I can't really imagine B getting out his axe for a quick riff, can you? No, that's what chronic schizophrenia can do for you. Poor old Peter Green comes across like B, or someone, talking about "they've got me on some new medication…" Oh fuck, here comes that old cretin "C". I fucking hate him. And with good reason, because he made a right nuisance of himself for the whole 2 hours he was in - falling asleep on people and in his dinner ("I was not sleeping, I was meditating"). So who else was in (you have probably guessed, I'm on my way home now)? Most of the usuals.
7-23/5/94: 2 weeks annual leave. Simon in Paris.
18/5/94: Had the fence fixed.
19/5 - 23/5/94: In Paris with Simon, Carol and family.
19/5/94: OnMyWayToParis - well Dover actually, but you know what I mean. Had several near-panics this morning about had I turned everything off / the videos on, should I leave the windows open / closed, what to wear, what to take, you name it - but now I'm on my way. The train is quite empty - an American couple a few seats away with a (thankfully dormant) sprog, and a greying back of someone's head are all I can see. Other panics? Well, that the ferry will sink, a la Herald Of Free Enterprise, that the train will crash, that I'll die in a fit of terminal indigestion... Ho hum. So anyway (there's this green m… oh, did I? oh, sorry) here I go. Fuckin train is fuckin jerkin abaht, innit? At Dover now. Why is my luggage so heavy? There are - perhaps not hundreds, but almost certainly dozens of ferries crossing the channel today, is this normal? I am presently on a Stenna Sealink car ferry, and out of the Port porthole I can see a hovercraft - make that two hovercrafts, a Townsend Thoresen ferry, another Stenna Sealink one, and five other ships which are too far away to be identified. Is this a record? No, it's a car ferry, I told you before. It's a mild, still day for a crossing although a bit overcast. 20/5/94: Paris, matin. Chez Moseley. Nice feeling even though drizzly day. William Moseley is a bright little thing, quite charming - he managed to blag himself a part in the film they're working on (Jefferson in Paris - "Je m'appelle Georges Washington de Lafayette"). Finally arrived here just after 10 last night, six hours after arriving in Calais. Spent an hour with Carol's mother, Zena, then we went across the road for a meal (I had grilled Chevre on toast with salad, then a rare steak with Roquefort sauce) and then back for a couple of hours' talk about el scriptoid. I really think Simon's pleased with it! 23/5/94: My last night in Paris and I've really enjoyed myself. Good hospitality and a nice family, what more can you ask? Feeling a bit mellow after seeing "Quatre Mariages Et Une Internement". This is a lovely big apartment which positively thrives on people. Meanwhile, script-wise, Dieter has become Rolf and the thing is taking on a far better, tidier shape. I hope I can do it justice, and do Simon credit. He has helped a lot by discussing it from a professional P.O.V. I wonder about many things. This morning we went for breakfast down by the Seine and then to the flea market out by the Porte de something (West of Paris). Last night we walked to Montmartre, via the Cimetiere and the Sacre Coeur, and had dinner in what seemed to be an Algerian-owned restaurant - I had couscous enough for three. Earlier we spent some time on the script after Carol, Zena, Claudia, William and Geoffrey (!) had gone to the coast. Friday night we went to a v. nice restaurant where Simon paid for all of us… I feel I ought to try and repay them somehow in my remaining few hours tomorrow morning. But how? I'm going to bed. 23/5/94: The Following Morning (E. Weber): 11.30 after a big breakfast (without capital letters because it's different from an English Big Breakfast) of fromage frais, eggs, bacon, tomato, mushrooms, baguette, pain rustique, bleu de bresse and caprice des dieux, with plenty of coffee for slooshing it down. Yum. Simon hums "Sunshine Of Your Love" in a French accent and I feel full. My train leaves the Gard du Nord at 14.18 and arrives in London at 22.10 tonight. Back to work tomorrow - bummer! But Wednesday off, a normal busy Thursday, Friday off, working the weekend and gigging Saturday, then it's really back to normal. Oh well. Oh blimey it's sad leaving. William was (and is) smashing and I had to say goodbye in the car - also to Simon. We just went up to Montmartre again in the sunshine, then a nice cream and a quick journey past Notre Dame before they dropped me off at the Gare du Nord, where I am now sitting on the train at 2.15 waiting for the off. Must remember to send them something when I get home, as a thankyou. That was a nice, restful but interesting weekend - staying with a family that I get on with. How long is this train journey going to be? What time does the ferry leave / arrive at Dover? What time does the train leave Dover? What time is love? Oh… on s'en va! On depart! Au'voir, Paris. A bien tot - j'espere. I started to get a bit damp-in-the-eyes when Si was playing Madness' greatest hits in the car - I think it was "Grey Day". Any opinions? Ha. I'm now surrounded by English people - common as muck ("Cor, innit great to be able to speak English fast?" - instead of shouting it slowly, presumably). On the way into Calais-Maritime station was a shitty little shop called "EastEnders Cash and Carry" - what a slimeball. I'm kind of pretending I'm French, and hence not connected to them by staying quiet. I wish I hadn't had to show my crap English passport! I do get bigoted and contemptuous sometimes, don't I? I mean, I know why it is - I despise people, sometimes! Especially the kind of shites that are around me sometimes. And I do say "sometimes" a lot, don't I? Sometimes? I'm lying in bed now, at 10.40 pm, about to have a last fag and glug of Wild Turkey bourbon font water before I visit the land of nod. Who knows what tomorrow may bring? 40,000 headmen I suppose. Still, they couldn't make me change my mind… In a Shanghai noodle factory - a place where I once used to be nowhere, doing nothing.
23/5/94: Andrew back at work.
25/5/94: Andrew off again.
28/5-16/6/94: Louise also off (annual leave). Me as senior staff member.
1/6/94: Back to work
It's 10.30 am, Wednesday, and A has been in already, in a foul mood, panicking about Necrotising Hydraphopolis, or whatever it's called. Bloody MM is also in, turning off my Mike Nesmith tape in favour of Capitol fucking gold, R is blabbering away, FW has gone off in a huff because the urn isn't hot enough to make him chocolate, JL is reading the paper, and JS and BH are staring out of the window. Another sunny day at Bedford Hill, generally.
RB is on Paroxetine… JT takes laxative mixture… I have of late (but wherefore I know not)... Theremin. So what else - well a stupid woman next to me is reading her scriptures: "Jehovah's Thought For The Day".
There's nothing much that I can say about the cafe that I haven't said several times before. It's an unpleasant, smelly, noisy, sometimes hot environment which contains a bunch of people who can be extremely unpleasant. And here I am. Still, it's a sunny day and I ought to stop wearing my leather jacket for a while, at least until it gets cooler. Hot town, summer in the city! We are normal and we dig Bert Weedon.

9/6/94: Malcolm's heart attack.
21/6/94: Sarah Griffin's wedding.
26/6/94: Richard Knipe's christening.
7/94: Verucca clinic. Reading Kenneth Williams' diaries. VERY hot all month! Also rail strikes weekly. Video heads need replacing.
8/7/94: Zanussi fridge freezer delivered.
14/7/94: "Arcadia" at Haymarket with Mame.
16/7/94: Comet Shoemaker/Levy smashes into Jupiter - the end of the world???
16/7 - 1/8/94: Annual leave. Working on the screenplay and DOOM - again! Bought video processors from ACT.
18/7/94: World cup final, Brazil won 3-2 on penalties.
27/7/94: Beggars on the tube
Some pathetic little shite with a boy's haircut and a girl's voice has just been begging on the underground - they look so pathetic, and deliberately so, that I always feel like kicking them, or saying something really rude. However, on the off-chance that they might be genuine I tend to dismiss them with a curt shake of the head. - No. And as for the beggars who have pre-prepared a piece of card which tells their tragic life story (and which would make FW's look like a perfect childhood), I have considered preparing a card of my own to show them in return, one which reads simply "Go Away" or, even better, just "no". Still, I'd rather be a mountain than Dabitoff.
2/8/94: Agreeing, for a change
I don't often find myself agreeing with street drinkers about anything much, but witness a conversation I heard over my lunch yesterday (I call it a conversation, but in fact Irish Tom was making comments and his companion was replying in monosyllables): "I had a can of Tennent's Extra yesterday. Fuckin' horrible it was. Eh? Fuckin' horrible". "Yeah. Fuckin' horrible." "Shit, yeah?" "Yeah." "Fuckin' horrible. Eh? Eh?" "Yeah." "Nearly as bad as Special Brew, eh? Fuckin' shit. Yeah?" "Yeah. Fuckin' Special Brew, fuckin' shit." "Eh? Shit, eh?" "Yeah" - and so it went on, and on…

9/8/94: Andrew back at work.
12/8/94: Meeting B
One of the most difficult and painful hours I've had for some time - with B, in the counselling room. It is physically painful to be with her and to try and listen and process all she is saying - without trying to interpret or comment! I knew that to an external observer I would have seemed (I was!) to be cowering and defending myself, but I rely on the unconditional positive transference which she seems to have towards me to disguise this from her view. The reality is that in order to make any sense at all of what is happening in the room I have to keep telling myself that she is probably not telling the truth a lot of the time. By which I don't mean that she is lying, rather that she is speaking from a position of false memory or psychotic processes. I do believe she believes what she is saying - but whether she understands what she is saying is another question altogether. We do not have a "conversation" at all, indeed the transaction between us is very weird indeed!
She tells me, for example: Her husband calls her a leech, and her sons heard this and also call her a leech. She was a registered child minder, so how can she be unfit to be around children? Her husband tells her she imagined the spider beetles and red mites, but why would they send them to the British Museum to find out what they were? Their son, J, got a hernia but F (her husband) wouldn't let him go to hospital and for 8 months J was crying and screaming in pain each time he sat down for a meal. Then he did go to hospital but F took him home without telling her and she told the courts and he said she was a liar, he had told her. J works at the cricket club for £35 a night, running the bar. F spends all his time there, she doesn't know what he's doing, or how much he earns. He once bought the boys steak for dinner and told her she could starve. He bought one son (D) a train set and J a balloon. B wants "her J and her D" but the psychologists have told them they must get away from their father. They say she should try to realise what F's been through with her. He made her ill, she says. She tells him she wants a divorce and he says "you're already divorced". She wants a nice three-bedroomed house with a garden. K (her daughter) tells her she's never been able to be a mother. F took over £2000 behind the bar the other night and she heard him say "they're not getting all of that" and then she found £400 in his wallet. He only gives her £1 a day and she gets all her clothes from jumble sales. She had to wash the son's sheets indoors in the winter and tried to air them but when she put them on the bed she saw steam rising but F said she had to put the boys to bed, that it wasn't damp, and then J got pneumonia. He bought J a cricket bat even though J said he didn't like cricket, and so J has to play now. And so on.
And all the time she smokes, she leans forward to me, her expression rarely changes, she started at 2.00 almost in mid-sentence from where she'd left off last week - it was extraordinary. and horrible.
More about B, while I remember: the "pediophile" (sic), the anal sex, the time she walked into the bathroom and J had his hand on F's penis and F just laughed at her, he spoils those kids by letting them live there for free, he wouldn't believe it when K was a prostitute, he won't have any social worker getting involved with this family, J's not gay, he says, andmoreagain.
…And the doctor said I was unwell and I had to go to hospital and the kids had to go into Social Services but I said I'm not writing him a note, the social worker will have to do it, and F came to hospital and said how dare you have my children taken into care, you're not ill, and made me come out of hospital and get them back, He changed after they were married, on their wedding day F's mother said "you've got a bad'un there"… Sorry, that was B again. She comes back from time to time, like Boopsie's alter-ego. Thanks to current affairs group for reminding me.

17/8/94: Right off
I'm not "right on", I never said I was, I'd hate to be "right on"! I'd rather have the freedom to think what I want, to feel what I want, to not be hidebound mentally by politics. I try not to be openly offensive, racist, sexist, etc., but I reserve the right to feel anything I want. I can't stand "right on"-ness, the pious smugness of alternative comedy. And sadly this tends to spread out onto those people who are devotees of that sort of thing - my liking for Sarah is, I'm afraid, tempered with a certain contempt for the things she believes in. I can't take seriously druids, white witches, hippies in 1994, alternative fucking comedy and so forth. Glastonbury. And certain aspects of "wimmen" today. I'm sorry, I really can't get into all that. Women's culture, black culture, hippy culture, gay culture, religion, whatever it happens to be. I wouldn't for one moment deny anybody the right to behave, dress, feel, think, believe and look any way they want - but I reserve the right to think differently and to feel they're stupid.
Why am I so contemptuous this morning? I'm not sure, but it may be connected with a feeling that I have that I'm going to be accused of being racist because I referred to emotional "blackmail". Marilyn seemed to react to this by getting angry and adopting a "black" voice - I dunno. I'd better stop before I go over the top.

21/8/94: Om sweet ham
Apparently it's "Earth Alignment Day" and there's a mass Om-in at Wembley. Don't think I'll go there, somehow.
I'd like to take a moment here to salute the good people at "L:L BRIGGS" of London for their most excellent honey roast ham which contains "not more than 25% added water". Not more than 25%! That means that of this pack, which contains four slices, not more than the equivalent of one whole slice is pure water! The words "off", "rip" and "slight" come to mind… Fat woman opposite me who could do with losing a chin or two.

15/9/94: Peter Knipe died
26/9/94: Peter's funeral.
31/9/94: Laura Nyro
Stunned, astonished and delighted today to see that Laura Nyro (Laura Nyro!!!) is playing a gig in Islington (Islington!!!) next month. Considered going straight from work to Jackson's Lane to buy tickets but, after being assured that they weren't going to sell out before tomorrow morning, ended up sending a cheque. This I cannot miss!
I had a conversation a couple of weeks ago with Paul about who I would still be interested in going to see live, since I haven't been to a gig of any description in years, but I left her off the list. I can't remember who I included - Family, I think I said, even though they broke up 20 years ago or so. Laura Nyro! Second only to Barbra Streisand in terms of people I would crawl over broken glass to see - perhaps first, even, since I didn't bother to try and get tickets for Babs. Mind you, paying £200 to see someone in Wembley arena is a bit of a different deal from £12.50 in a church hall in Highbury! Fuck me, I still can't really believe it… Laura Nyro!!!

12/10/94: Start four weeks on Prepulsid for reflux.
17/10/94: Day trip to Eastbourne. Andrew died 10.30pm.
26/10/94: Andrew's funeral.
29/10/94: Panics & anxiety all Saturday, gig evening ok.
Reflecting 31/10/94: Nearly November and the last 6 months have really had everything there is to throw at me: becoming a Godfather, Simon & family in Paris, Mal's heart attack, Andrew's illness, my infection, John Smith's death, Alam and Sarah getting married (not to each other!), my birthday, Mal heart attack again, Christening, Peter Knipe's death and funeral, Andrew's death and funeral, and now Louise... I hope nothing else will happen - at least, nothing bad. I'm not stupid, I know I'm guilty.
1/11/94: It was two weeks ago today that we found out, and since then my entire world has undergone a shift. Today (Tuesday) will be the first chance I've had to talk about any of it in a practical way, no wonder I feel as tense as I do. Weak and breathless with a headache earlier and 2 propranolol just to be on the safe side. I have to say, though, that despite it all I can't help but be impressed with myself in that I'm still here and I've coped - so far, anyway.
Still full of "Heroes And Villains" in all its incarnations - the best pop song ever written? Possibly... The tube station (7 Sisters) is crammed, I have indigestion (I think massive anxiety overrules Prepulsid).
Jesus, where are all these people coming from? There's been a constant flow of people along the platform ever since I got here - about 10 minutes ago - and still they come. Standing four deep at the platform edge and only slightly relieved by the arrival of a nearly full train. I wait for an empty one, I'm fucked if I'm going to stand all the way to Stockwell. Meanwhile the overhead sign tells me of problems on the Northern Line, so I may be a trifle late (I will be, it's already 9.07).
I'm also feeling a bit pressurised into looking after myself & the possible effects of my illness or death on - and there I stopped, I think a train came. I was going to say something (which I expanded upon in the staff group) about the weight that I felt on myself after seeing the effect that Andrew's death has had on everybody. I feel like I can't even choose to mistreat myself...

11/11/94: Laura Nyro at the Union chapel.
5/12/94: Andrew's memorial service in the library hall. Pub, then to Sarah's afterwards. Next morning very late for work, explosive group & Marilyn walked out.
13/12/94: Art therapy workshop with Val Huet.
14/12/94: Day centre Xmas party in cafe, only 6 clients.
16/12/94: Serious symptoms all day long, very worried. Evening at Eco's with Sarah, Louise, Paul, Christine & Annette, during which they went away.
25/12/94: Went to mum's mid-day, Olwen was there, Mame arrived 2-ish, went to Zetter's pm, I bought mum an ansafone with Mame.