JOURNAL - 1980 - FEBRUARY

DIARY 12 continued: February - April 1980

6 February 1980, Leyton

It's the Eighties

London stinks of greyness and drizzle. Nothing is quite the same for me. Neither Dom nor E ring me back. Dad says he's broke, so can't help me buy a house. I've no home, no job, and I'm not even in love. I anticipate deterioration. Having climbed steadily over the last two and a half years, I seem to be heading for a crisis. I fear I shall have to go back to business, if it'll have me. I am very nervous. I feel my body juddering. My heart struggling to feed the flesh. I smoke too much. I have degenerated from the tranquillity on Corsica.

Saturday 8 February

I would be writing mountains here were it not for Colin who listened patiently to all my stories of people, thus removing any need to write them down. I feel smaller, less confident. I have less will, less perspective. I am heartily disparaged. I am also aware of the huge disparity between knowledge and experience.

Friday 29 February

Rachmaninov Piano Concerto No 3 plays. I have a coffee in one hand, a pen in the other, a glass of water close by. A headache threatens, an alarm clark ticks incessantly, candles flicker. This is Colin's room. I no longer have a room here in Leytonstone. I borrow Rosina's room.

L goes back to Argentina. Now the descent must start.

LAST NIGHT NERVES.

This was an all glitter show to celebrate the award giving ceremony of the London Student Drama Festival. Originally, the students approached John Ashford who approached the Phantom Captain which agreed to do a 20 minute piece. But the show grew and grew and F.O.L.D.S developed, and FOLDS took over the whole evening, hence 'Last Night Nerves'. I helped just for the fun of it. But then I resent being the go-for. I don't mind being a go-for when I'm acting being a go-for, but being an assistant assistant stage manager is too belittling. But I like Neil Hornick. The host's patter is to include word plays and rehearsed awkward gestures, but is mostly a string of cliches and puns. It is quite obvious from the start that it's not going to be a straight award-giving ceremony, so, I'm not sure, whether with the surprise gone, it can work. I suppose so. The audience is likely to be sympathetic.

How alone I am at night now that L has flown. Why have I not written about her in this diary? Perhaps she fulfilled me so completely so intensley for three weeks that I had no need to write. Besides, she wrote enough each day for the both of us. She wrote about what Colin was watching on television, what we had for breakfast, what she bought in Tesco's etc. And in her album she stuck bus tickets and sweet wrappers and the labels from my tobacco packets. How sweet she is.

Paul K Lyons

March 1980

 

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