Diary entry, Monday, 13th November, 1972

Diary of 13-11-1972. First, it must be recorded that winter is closing in – as witnessed by my sitting about 2 feet from an electric fire in Farnborough. Last night was all gale and rain, with snow over hills etc in the north. So here we are, with no leaves on a tree. Phoned home on Wednesday, only to be told that John Auton had died on Sunday 5th; he had been unconscious all week from an accident the previous Sat/Sunday [late Sat night].

So went to Southampton and told S, but first was flustered, and caught the wrong train, and ended up in London. Went to the funeral on Friday. Very sad. It all made me realise how pathetic and miniscule are my problems. Better life than death. Mick’s going to work in Gateshead, and I’m going to live in Guildford.

Saw many old photographs at home at the weekend. One taken in Guildford in 1928. Bought some reasonable sounds recently, and my 21st birthday party passed without too much effort, except I smashed tube lighting with a champagne cork at Surrey Advertiser celebrations about bringing out its biggest ever issue. Next to me was Ray Tindle, chairman of the publishing company.

So, what needs to be said? Well, in a way there is a lot – I still travel by train, and have an occasional meal at Harveys, where I can look out upon Guildford and the hills beyond, and think “well, what is all that?” The mess that is the town; it just straggles over hills and covers its sides with bricks and tarmac. And the cathedral looks like a little council house [nothing wrong with council houses…I used to live in one].

On thinking of any ruined little cottage, with no windows, no mortar, no roof, just 4 wet, broken, stone walls, on the North York moors, all this, the town, seems nothing. And it seems surprising that down there there are actual humans. Finished Damian, by Hermann Hesse, so gave it to Anthea when we went to York a couple of weeks ago. I’ll get to Lincoln this coming weekend and get a few things together with Doug.

I am now on Steppenwolf, by Hesse, which is about a man who can’t really get it together. Stuck between two lives, 2 ages of existence, or just on the edge of normal existence. Our Steppenwolf, perhaps, just sees the eventual futility of everything. Or the apparent futility. He can see through all, and so pushes away what he feels to be useless, and holds for a while that which is of some value to him. So, if there something of value to the Steppenwolf , perhaps there is not so much futility. Ah, but the moors and the grey wet empty streets will say, “Look, there were men who walked over me, and now they are dead, and where have they gone? To earth and to air.”

Ah, I cheat again and search for the ultimate. Has it ever occurred to you [me] that you might have to work for it, either naively, or childishly, or with an improving intellect; and realise it in your old age, so that life is calmer? Looking back, things haven’t really been too bad.

Times were good with John. Zonking around in his minivan, calling in at pubs, and S’s for a coffee, and sometimes he and S and Christine would come to “mine” for a cup of tea or coffee. That was in the autumn of ’68. The best autumn yet. Memories roll over, and over, and there is “The Bays” pub in Peterborough, with the Isley Brothers on the jukebox, singing “This old heart of mine”, and there is me, getting out of Chris Nicholas’ car to get some aspro before walking down Queen St to The Bays, to meet the others. And once, S and I sat in there, in one of the dark corners, held hands, and then we ran back some of the way holding hands, down Park Road…

If I have managed, after all the ensuing mess, to bundle a separate existence for myself, like Steppenwolf, then I suppose something is achieved. But John didn’t do that, and for his 21 years had probably more than I’ll have in 10 years hence, if I’m still around. I will soon slip into Wuthering Heights – that mystical book by Emily. Open moors, bleak, yes, but promising, and clean!

Prose poem written 16-06-1972 at 2 Flora Avenue, Darlington

Written on the day before our last at 2 Flora Avenue, Darlington, i.e. on Friday 16^th June, 1972.

[See end of this post for a scan of the original]

The breakdown
Of the old order has begun;
See “Flesh” [produced by Andy Warhol] and “Straw Dogs”

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QPS-YFhhgx8

And hear a song of Vincent*
And words from Neil Young**
And Cohen died before it all began – [Note from 2011, NO, he didn’t! That’s just a play on something]
some months ago.

Poseur…tut! August, 1972. PW. Aldershot. Photo by fellow Darlo journo student Mick McGill

And laugh in Veronica’s ear last night
At a party at 45 Stanhope Road
And mother was here – [Note from 2011 – weeks before]
blow bubbles in Veronica’s ear
and think of [xyz2] at the party exactly a month ago
on 15th May.
And the breakdown has commenced.
Em caught the 11:45 a.m. train home – [Note  from ’11. Em was our flat mate]
in the sun, no showers to damp our faces
though I stayed in bed still recovering
from the night before.

Photo very likely taken by Doug Thain, as Em leaves 2 Flora Av at the end of our course. Doug took Em to the station.

And Glynn came – [who was he?…a relative of John Landells?]
And Veronica came,
And Pete’s going tomorrow.

I’ll hang on for two weeks
With Doug, re-create Utopian Dream
for days, a while to rest,
to pick up.   Dave*** the crane driver missed work today.
He fell asleep and was sent home!
We corrupt,
and the old order awaits a new!

*”Vincent [Starry starry night]” … A song by Don McLean about Vincent van Gogh. It was a favourite of  Doug and mine.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dipFMJckZOM

** e.g. “‘Words”  from the vinyl LP [album] “Harvest”. That vinyl LP was played a lot at 2 Flora Avenue.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fblRC38_8dI

***Dave turned up at a party and we befriended him…and he, us.

Written 2 Flora Avenue, Darlington.

Brief diary entry of Sunday, October 22nd, 1972. Farnborough, Hants.

Sunday, October 22nd, 1972. It is now just 2 days before my birthday. Autumn is sprouting and growing up quickly. Cars continue to rush by. — [deleted] beneath clouds; clouds everywhere, books here and there, poems and words… …Sue [From 2011 – my off and on GF, and friend, at the time – since we were both age 17, in fact.] has just given me this pen to write with [it’s red], as she wants to continue writing in blue to Irene…And now I feel I may be able to express, in prose, my situation. [One page is torn out and one page heavily crossed out with crayon. Oh dear!!! Dark times!]

Diary entry of August 13th, 1972 – Farnborough, Hampshire

 Sunday August 13^th., 8:44 pm. 1972.

Just moved to [a 2-person] bedsit at 98 Alexandra Rd, Farnborough [Hants]. And what a hassle! Moved some stuff in on Thursday and I arrived for good last night at about 8. And there was an Irish woman here with a baby.  She went off and came back with her husband and 2 heavies, one of whom threatened me so I went off and got in the police, who weren’t too helpful, but one, an Irishman, got me a camp bed for free at a hotel just down the road, “The Concorde” – or something.

I paid 25p for the laundry, et c’est tout. People coming and going ’til 3.30 in the morning so I was really knacked but slept ’til 6, when I heard knockings.

Thinking it was the wind rattling the window I thought nothing of it until a Pakistani started saying “key lock, key lock, key lock…” He obviously wanted a key for the front door. I said “try lifting the latch,” but he was foreign and zonked and lost et il ne comprit pas [transl: he didn’t understand].

So then he said…”Can I go through your window? Can I go out through your window? Then he said “Thank you, thank you” and disappeared somewhere, not through the window.

Anyway, man, wow, I got up at about 9 and eventually arrived back here. The bloke and his wife had gone, leaving some of their stuff, though. He came back sometime and said I’d have to go. But he was just a hassle and eventually, after a phone call to BIT for a little advice I told him that he would have to be evicted sometime.

[From 2011…about BIT: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/BIT Quote: “BIT was an information service, publisher, travel guide and social centre founded, in 1968, by John ‘Hoppy’ Hopkins. It pre-dated the internet as a free service that would try to find any information asked for and derived its name from the smallest unit of computer information…Emerging from the UK undergound as a volunteer run business, it evolved into a collective and open house based in Notting Hill.” Also note from 2011: So, BIT was very advanced for its time. I had to phone from a public phone box. There were no mobile phones in those days and 98 Alexandra Road didn’t have a phone. I would have obtained BIT’s phone number from an “underground” (not the London underground! – a cultural and political underground magazine. I used to read IT  – International Times – and Oz magazine, both of them quite popular “‘underground” titles).  Or perhaps even the police, if they were that enlightened]

BIT Free Information Service advert - 1973?

Pic of BIT advert taken from  a_journey_overland_from_england_to_india_and_nepal_in_1973_on_the_hipp_photos#browser_top

Then he called the police and they told him, quite bluntly, that “you haven’t got a leg to stand on”. So later he shifted his gear out, man.

My bedclothes and mattress were still being aired in the wild garden. In brushing – f***, me, this writing is bloody terrible, and Hendrix and the light is on, and Mick [Note form 2011 -Mick McGill, fellow journalist; he was with the Farnborough News] is lying on his bed – around the buttons on the mattress, I discovered some sort of dead and somewhat shrivelled maggot thing.

And now it’s Monday. I left off [my diary] after “maggot thing” and we – Mick and I – went and got a bit pissed. Hardly slept a wink last night. Just one small sheet, dirty smelly rough blankets, so I just put some clothes on in the morning at about 5 and slumbered vaguely and got up at 7.

Ran and walked a mile for the train at North Camp and then I’ve been sort of ill all day and stomach pains come and go, which brings me up to the present moment, when christ don’t I need the company of a woman. See you sometime when I write again. [Note from 2011…I was addressing myself]

Oh, Em [Emlyn Roberts] ‘phoned today. That made me feel good. I phoned home, too. That also was quite vibratious. [from 2011…I liked to create new words. “Vibratious meant…as in good vibrations, or good. Or perhaps I didn’t create it. Google the word…. Perhaps it was fairly common parlance then among a certain sub-set…the young “underground” type] .

And where has Frank got to? Perhaps he can’t get it together…So, John Landells, Doug, Em, Bill, me and Mick are contacting each other and hearing about each other; also hear about Ken and Olwen; Jane and Carol have packed reporting, ‘journalism’, up. Can’t blame them, because it’s all a mad go. Em is enjoying it and I wonder what [xyz1] is up to these days.

Probably find out when I go to see her on Thursday – bought her “Harvest” by Neil Young ‘cos I’ve scratched the one I borrowed a month ago.

I wonder what Pete is doing? Miles behind but I can’t speak ‘cos I’m miles behind, too, so shut up, I have to tell myself. Well, I was going to stop on the other page.  But I will now ‘cos it’s 10:16 p.m. here in Farnborough and we’re going to have a drink of coffee and then I’ll go to bed. I’ve given Mick his single sheet back and I’ll sleep in my clothes “twixt the blankets”. I just made that quote up. PS,  [my brother…] Robert’s gonna work in Birmingham.

Diary entry 18th July, 1972: Tuesday [with news of Doug Thain]

18th July, 1972:  Tuesday

7:50p.m.  [Diary entry by PW]

Hmm. Too long since last I wrote. Believe it or not, the world has changed somewhat and now I am sitting in a room at “The Oaks” in Bookhurst Hill,  Cranleigh, Surrey [my landlady was Mrs Swallow, whose late husband was of the family that owned Swallows Tiles]. It is evening, about 7.45 or later and very warm and humid. It has been like this for days.

Outside the bedroom window is the garden, then the road, then the woods. At the back of the house there are woods, too, while Guildford is 9 or 10 miles away and Elvis is on Robert’s little old record player.

Where can I start? Well, I’ve been working for the Surrey Advertiser for just over a week now (started 10th). I left Darlington a week before that, on a Sunday (2nd), actually. And for about 10 days before that I was attached in some respect to [xyz2…she shared her first name with xyz1]…She was 18 and had just finished her “A” levels. She was …[ position in her school]. She’ll probably get to … [x university].

I met her first on 15th May ’72 at our party at 2 Flora Avenue. And I’m still knocked out by her. She was engaged, but that finished before I next met her on 22nd June at a party at 1 Pierremont Crescent, Darlo, where I had moved in for the last 2 weeks. Perhaps it was a little form of love.

We went to Whitby on Tuesday 27th June. It was her day off from being a barmaid at the Berni Inn – and she came up to the bedroom [at 1 Pierremont Crescent] and half woke me up. I was half awake already. It was drizzling and raining in Darlington. We walked to the station and caught a train to Middlesborough. There we changed and caught a different train to Whitby.

It is hard to put it all down in prose, but I’m going to write a poem about it all one day. The most important thing is that it’s in my head.

We went to the beach, then up to the ruined Abbey. Sent a postcard home, and also one to Dave; he and I are still in contact….We exchange ideas (in letters) and give [each other] tips about books, records etc.

I think he’s still in Cornwall, relaxing as the real Hippie should, on the beaches, on the cliffs, under the trees, and in the pubs. He’s lucky, but maybe he’ll have to start work sometime.

Work, although it’s tiring is probably doing me some good. It’s forcing me to flex my brain’s muscles. I phoned Doug [Thain] at Lincoln today.

Anyway, to get back to Earth. [Xyz1] and I finished at Easter. And a good thing, too! I passed some exams and failed 100w.p.m. shorthand and law [Note- but got them later]. I passed English, Government, Current Affairs, Newspaper Practice and anything else that came along.

Yes, we had a really good time at Darlington. It was very good at 1 Pierremont. I got on very well with Mick, John Crossland and others.  I also got on very well with Doug Thain and Emlyn Roberts at 2 Flora Avenue, where we really really appreciated Doug taking us out in his car.

[Note from 2011: And Doug helped me when I was unwell; forced to go to the doctor. That was him. More about the late Doug Thain in a future post – and at the end of this post] .

It was so sad (!) when everybody left over the days towards the end. Like a big crazy family; getting pissed, going to bed at 3 or 4 in the morning when it was light. And Clare, whom I shall see again some time [from 2100 – never did!]. And Margaret (Early).

I remember the crazy morning after the party of 22nd (a Thursday). [Xyz2] was staying at her friends (Pat’s home). The rest of us didn’t sleep all night (except for John Landells and Doug). Mick, Bill and I walked to Margaret’s house and 94 Conniscliffe Road, with Margaret, Clare and Pat (another one).

We were mad. I wore a blanket and sunglasses. Mick and Clare were in bare feet. But it was very good. We bought milk from the Spa supermarket down Cleveland Terrace. [Note from 2011: We drank from our bottles as we walked along, blissfully happy in our rebellion. A woman tut tutted at us,  a complaint that I much appreciated].

And now, a more staid future dulls my road. I’ll take a path, and leave that road. I’ve been deciding that for some time. I’ll see Dave, and Mick when he gets back from Hong Kong; Frank when he starts at Wokingham. I’ll see Doug and I’ll see Clare again, too (yes, I know I’ve already said that ( and, I really hope, [zyz2]). Because, I suppose, I loved her in my own way. And I think of her for much of the time.

Films I saw at Darlington were:

Soldier Blue. Violent but truthful.

Flesh, by Andy Warhol. Not bad.

Willard. About rats; quite average.

The Music Lovers. Passionate. Sensitive. Dramatic! Story of Tchaikovsky.

Love Variations. Shit.

The Virgin & The Gypsy – with Sons & Lovers. Reasonable! But Sons & Lovers was rubbish.

Straw Dogs. Saw twice. Good, but a third time I’d die of boredom.

Fleck. Total rubbish. “Underground” film that reached nothing. The only depths it reached were those of a vacuum.

A Mule for Sister Sarah – or something like that. Shit.

Postscript – about Dog Thain.

“Doug Thain: award-winning journalist and top-class sub-editor”

http://www.pressgazette.co.uk/story.asp?storyCode=28030&sectioncode=1

07 March 2003

Former colleagues of Doug Thain have paid tribute to the award-winning journalist and national newspaper sub-editor, who died peacefully aged 50 following a short illness.

After completing an NCTJ pre-entry course at Darlington College in 1972, Thain moved to London where he met Beth, his wife and mother of his two children, while working as a junior reporter on the Lincolnshire Echo.

After a brief spell broadcasting on BBC Radio Carlisle, he returned to newspapers, joining the Sheffield Star, where he won the Campaigning Journalist of the Year award in 1976. Prime Minister James Callaghan presented him with it at The Savoy.

At 25, he became the youngest sub-editor on the Daily Mail in Manchester, where he stayed for 15 years before heading south to the Daily Star’s London offices.

Hugh Whittow, deputy editor of the Daily Star and editor of the Daily Star Sunday, said: “It’s really very sad news. He was so very, very talented, a fantastic guy and a very popular and energetic member of staff.”

“Everybody used to say how brilliant his headlines were. We are all so desperately sorry he died so young.”

Friend and colleague George Fowler said: “What a terrible loss of talent. He was one of the nicest blokes I have ever met. Witty, charming, keen –a brilliant bloke.”

Jon Smith, deputy chief sub-editor at the Express and a friend for 20 years, said: “He was such a great friend. Probably one of the best subs I have ever come across. I worked with him at the Mail. He was one of the best creative subs and rewrite men that I have ever seen.”

Thain took early redundancy a few years ago due to ill health to pursue a freelance career from his home in St. Albans, Hertfordshire.

Some of his work included writing a brochure for guitar maker Lowden, which enabled him to combine his love of guitars with his passion for journalism.

He leaves his 82-year-old mother and twin daughters, Laura and Caroline. Caroline can be contacted by those who knew Doug at caroline_thain@hotmail.com

Diary entry of 15th December, 1971

Diary entry of 15^th December 1971. Wednesday

Well, it is a long time since I wrote. Like the stream in a … circle, I have changed and things have changed. I am now at Darlington. I am sitting in the kitchen of 2 Flora Avenue before the dully hissing gas fire. It is very quiet. No music. The wind has abated…

Yes, I’m here, and we had 2 exams today. I got 80 wpm [words per minute] shorthand (Teeline) which is really quite good. The other exam was local government. As usual, life is a boring drag. Living from day to day is a drag. Where is there a light? [From 2011 – maybe I was suffering from lack of sunshine in the winter months! Anyway, Doug eventually dragged me off to see a doctor.]

For lunch today I had cold cooked shoulder – of lamb? Boiled potatoes, brussel sprouts, a carrot and that is all. Maybe a cup of coffee, too. [Note from 2011 – I cooked all this myself…no problem!]

The minds of Peter and myself clash. He is like fire, I am ice. All I can ever manage for him is what he calls a “benign” smile…

2 pairs of socks and one pair of knicks are hanging above me. The weather is windy but mild. We had snow a month ago, or more, 3-4 inches. Since then cloudy, mild, muggy, foggy, the lot. None of this is too inspiring, so I’ll close. I hope I can put a little colour into your heart the next time I write – whenever that will be. [Note from 2011:  I was writing to myself and/or an unseen, fictitious reader]

Diary entry of Friday, August 13th 1971

Friday August 13^th 1971     59 Exeter Road, Peterborough.

5 p.m.  This is the only Friday 13^th of 1971, or so I am told, so I thought I may as well write a little of something.  Actually, I have a few childhood memories that I want to put down “sur ce papier”, so to speak.

I have just started reading a book by a Norwegian who died last year. [Note from 2011 – Alf Prøysen, perhaps? Or, more likely, Tarjei Vesaas] . I think I’ll like it; it’s the sort of stuff I like!, to put it crudely. Playing Beethoven again. Boris Pasternak wrote Dr Zhivago, by the way (where else).

I haven’t written any poetry for quite a while now. Somehow nothing clicks. This morning I received £4.20 in cheque from Social Security, as I am out of work. I had some weird dreams last night – I’ve had a lot recently. But at least I’m feeling better now.

Rain on and off all day. Cool and cloudy and vaguely windy. I did not get the money back on the car, so I’m running it now – except that the battery keeps failing and it has to be charged up (it’s doing that now).

Maybe the generator (i.e. dynamo) is not working. Really, nothing has happened today. I slept until about 10.45 a.m., bought some milk, as there wasn’t much left, and had some shredded wheat. Went into town, met [xyz1], walked around a bit, I had a horlicks, she a coffee, in a café (Purdy’s – note from 2011, that was in Cathedral Square, Peterborough) and then we split – to use a trendy phrase. Phew, this is boring.

As our “front room” is being decorated, the tv is not working. I haven’t watched it much for a long time now and don’t miss it at all. We’re not rich enough for colour t.v. I wonder wonder if I’ll ever have one.

[Reminiscences…of Hunstanton, of the wild, relatively un-tamed area around an out of town caravan park, where we had a caravan, in the 1960s]…  I remember standing in a marsh. Few bushes and trees, streams with steep banks and fast fish – too fast to catch!  A lizard flashed by my feet, then it was lost in the weeds and long grass.

Outside this wet swampy field lay, to one side, a caravan park (i.e. to the North East). To the East was a tent camp site and the other two sides were nothing; just field and ditches  – about 100 yards away were the stables and ponies for the beach.

Those days are past. Years ago I lived them, and loved them. And where are they now? Where are the friends we made and the girls?  Where are the dusks and my walks by the still, silent streams, looking for frogs, tadpoles, fishes, swatting at gnats, carrying a tin can for my catches.

And the smell of it all! Salt from the sea, mud smells, water smells. Reeds and long grass. Dew and rain. And the rumbling of the train on the line not far away. Do I remember that big fire one afternoon and evening, miles away to the West or South West? Yes, the smoke drifting casually our way, the caravanners looking and pointing its way.

They are all gone. Lost in the lines of time. What is there now? Do I live on these memories? The memories of putting pennies and half pennies on the steel railway tracks and watching the trains rush by, waving to the occupants, climbing back up the embankment (after climbing back over the rusty wire fence) to see the flattened, sometimes also broken, coins.

In the mornings joining up with two friends to walk across the railway tracks, across another quiet still stream and into a wood, a copse. Here it was so quiet. Nothing could touch us. We found a baby bird, dead.  On the ground it lay, naked, small wings curled up. Other birds sang, the strong orange-like sunlight swirled through the leaves. We laughed and played, trains roared by, their noise wrapped out and dulled by the trees.

Here I am today about 7, 8, 9, 10 years later. More or less? I am now 19 years and 10 months old.   Several GCEs and A levels later I feel like a rusty tin can filled with half-dead fish myself. The train to Hunstanton has stopped going there.

So many of these small (but big in our minds) train services have stopped. The tracks have gone. The embankments overgrown and lost. The “special excursions” are now history.

[From 2011: here is a poem I wrote in March 1971 – about train rides to Hunstanton, from Peterborough]…White Summer

I was a child, I remember that well,
we took a train ride to a coast;
the early morning air brushed my legs
lifted my hair;
breakfast was bread and jam and milk, standing up,
looking at the clock in agitation and exasperation.

Too poor for taxi
so we walked along the night dark streets
to the train station and smoke,
Steam and smoke hiss
and bubbles drop on the sweating steely body;
funnel pokes high above me,
from the rails to the sky it seems to explode.
Already we move
we are inside a moving room in the growing light,
window open, clouds hang by, run by
before the sun is up and peeps
between dark woods asleep on quiet hills;
a farmer here a fisherman there
leaning on a tree by a sweeping stream
casting dreams to the storming wheels.

Talk talk we talk and laugh
and think of the day ahead
as the whistle howls
and the rails chatter like excited girls in town,
steam train, smoke train, take us to where we go,
summer, white summer, I remember your mornings
with crows in the sky
and rooks on their ways to the fields of wheat in the east,
trains and rivers and bridges,
the beaches on which we played I loved.

The hot airless sun stung my eyes and face,
the waves played with the sand in my hair.

Tea among the sand dunes,
supper on the train.
we are returning home
Again!

[Written March 14th 1971, 8 Southend Avenue, Darlington]

Diary entry of 2nd August, 1971

Diary. 2^nd August, 1971. 59 Exeter Road, Peterborough.

10pm Today has been very much like any other holiday. 1^st day on holiday after 3 weeks of pseudo hell at “Freemans” – mail order factory extraordinaire.

I, in case you don’t know, am [–] , 19 year old student, wasted a year on a BA course at North East London Polytechnic and now awaiting the beginning, in September, of a course in journalism at Darlington College of Technology.

London can be good. It can be terribly depressing. It epitomizes life in general today. One vast blind, continuous rush, dirt, noise.

[Note from 2011: Part of a page and 2 pages torn out years ago – oh dear, must have been bad!. The one-paragraph entry below must have been dated 7^th August or after]

News: (i) bad situation in Northern Ireland (ii) “Oz” editors freed on bail, minus long hair [Note from 2011: That was after the longest conspiracy trial in English history, at that time at least. The editors were Felix Dennis and Richard Neville]. (iii) Still there is starving and war (iv) Moon astronauts home [note from 2011: Apollo 15 mission. Launched 26 July 1971 Landed on Moon 30 July 1971. Hadley Rille. Returned to Earth 7 August 1971] (v) Today it has been raining, though it is still bloody warm and humid.

[Undated 1971 entry from torn out page, but must have been 7^th August or after]…Went to see “Zeppelin” – a fiction story of World War One and a L.Z.36 . Very good suspense story. [ From 2011: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WLNkHAm4uNk ]

I think the best film I’ve seen remains “Dr Zhivago” [from 2011: but I had seen few films up to that time]. I forget who wrote the book, though I should know ‘cos he was and still is a most influential writer in the Soviet Union. They have some brilliant writers, they really ought to allow them to write what they wish. The iron puppet leaders are scared!

I recently read a book of assorted Russian short stories and poems – very good. Also I read a book of short stories by a bloke who name was, I think, Yury Kazakov, called “The Smell of Bread and Other Stories”.

[From 2011: Indeed it was: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Yury_Kazakov (August 8, 1927–November 29, 1982) ]

On Monday I finally sent off Chuck’s birthday present, an antique, about 1840, tobacco jar. [from 2011: Chuck was Chuck Harrison, an American “pen friend”.] Sent by airmail, costing £3.75, but as I had saved a lot of stamps while working at Freemans, I used those and didn’t spend a penny. [Note from 2011: I tore unfranked stamps from returned items]

Stephen is attempting to fix an old, 1952, Austin Devon, A40, car. It’s almost as old as me! It’s a drag that my car is being returned, [but not] if we can get my money back on it. I’ll also have to tell you sometime about a week I spent with friends in S E Wales, in the Wye Valley, earlier in the summer, a few weeks ago. Meanwhile time is moving and anything else I would say would be boring. Cheers! I’ll stop and just add that this little writing has cheered me up a bit. I hope I have a good time with [xyz1] tonight. I didn’t sleep well last night, but at least (!) my headache has now gone.

[Note from 2011: it would be 20 years before I wrote of the Wye Valley/Offa’s dyke/Black Mountains visionary expedition. See:

http://goo.gl/dVR1A

Diary entry 18-05-1971

12 Avenue Road, Forest Gate, London. A bedsit. By P W [age 19] May 18th 1971.

I am listening to some old blues music on the radio. Outside, the evening sun dances with all the singing birds, twittering sparrows, and the waving early-summer green leaves on the tall trees at the bottom of the garden. I have just drunk a little Brown ale. It tasted like summer, and seemed to swill around my body and inside my head with the dusty beat of the old music. Oh, do you remember the notes, the beats, the crackling trumpets and strings? They are all a part of this quiet balmy evening…birds still singing, the blues still sounding through the years, and yet everything is so very very quiet. Another tune, the sun dances on, the sunny breezes begin to hide in the shadows for the night. Another drink, and another wailing trumpet wind flows around my room, into my head, my blood, my heart, and thoughts.

…end…

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Welcome to WordPress.com. After you read this, you should delete and write your own post, with a new title above. Or hit Add New on the left (of the admin dashboard) to start a fresh post.

Here are some suggestions for your first post.

1. You can find new ideas for what to blog about by reading the Daily Post.
2. Add PressThis to your browser. It creates a new blog post for you about any interesting  page you read on the web.
3. Make some changes to this page, and then hit preview on the right. You can alway preview any post or edit you before you share it to the world.