Terry came back at teatime, querying at the door: “Do you want the good news or the bad news?” “Good news.” The ‘good’ news was he wasn’t going to take the place in the hostel up town because he’d decided getting a job was more important and he needed the money to buy shirts for interviews rather than leave himself short, unable to buy a shirt when he had an interview. The bad news, “There is no bad news.” Put on the spot, I accepted on the spot but, being me, retracted somewhat. I had been looking forward to the respite. He could come back, of course, if it didn’t work out, but hadn’t gone to come back. I’d been indulgent in the expectation he was going, especially of his drinking. Rules would have to be changed.
I was writing a letter for John in reply to his, in which he is not keen on my sharing my bed with another guy. Terry as is his way was giving distracting commentary of an increasingly pontifical kind. It wasn’t all bad. He showed me how to use the computer in a more expert way, kindly slowing down for me to grasp what he was doing.
Having drunk almost a complete bottle of wine and the four beers he had bought he was sitting there watching a boring film which didn’t end till one-thirty when I wanted to go to bed and sleep which I’d find difficult to do with the tv on. We compromised. I switched the tv off and we had a contretemps instead which saved twenty-five minutes.
It is not easy sleeping with somebody else. I’m getting stupid from barely getting enough sleep to get by on. He keeps saying he sleeps. Oh yes, he sleeps. He stupefies himself into it and sleeps. I can tell from the snoring. What with him and a lover, maybe I’ve taken too much on. What d’you think? I agree. “Have you bought the shirts?” I asked wryly.