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Diary, Thursday 26th September, 1996:

Visited a friend yesterday. Stayed with him for a couple of hours, talking into the night. He drank Vodka. Lots of it. He suffers from a metaphysical depression: he suffers at the vulgarity, the ugliness and coarseness of things, at the pointlessness of sticking one’s finger into a dyke to stop the water. We laughed. He was dressed only in a towel. His ageing pulpy body crushed by his depression. We we sitting on a black leather coach in a room with pink walls. I went to the toilet. The toilet is lime green set against pink tiles.



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