Went shopping with Disha this afternoon. She wanted to get something to go with her red skirt for the party tonight (we reckon we can be exempt from the DP just this once – after all, even Great Artists and Writers do Fall in Love, even if it’s only TRAGICALLY). I, of course, could buy NOTHING. I have to save all my money for a bike, and no one else would give me any. (Not even Justin. He’s left the photos of Jocelyn and Robert Bandry sleeping at Andrew’s, so it’s my word against his.) I offered to do errands for Nan for a nominal charge and she accused me of being worse than a money changer in a temple. I even tried to borrow a tenner from Justin, but he wasn’t having it either. He said that I still owed him fifty quid from the summer. I pointed out that I’d only borrowed a fiver that time. He said it was fifty quid with interest. (Rest assured, the skies over London will be choked with pigs before he sees any of that!!!) Anyway, Disha and I went to the West End. I was so distraught over my poverty that I forgot to bring my mobe and Disha’s was at home charging, so she had to use a phone box to ring her mother and find out what it was she was meant to pick up for her. You couldn’t even see out of the box, there were so many cards plastered all over the glass. And they’re not like minicab cards (you know, name, phone number and maybe a drawing of a car). They’re full-colour photographs with whips and stuff like that. Disha said she doesn’t know why they bother putting porn magazines on the top shelf of the newsagent’s when the phone boxes are wallpapered with the same sorts of pictures. She said Sappho must never come to the West End, because if she did there wouldn’t be a box left standing. I asked Disha if she thought they were ALL prostitutes, or if some of them really were masseuses and personal trainers. Disha said she hoped I was joking. It was just that there seemed to be SO MANY. Disha said well, there would be, wouldn’t there? You don’t need any qualifications, you make more than you would working in Woolworths, and you don’t have to pay tax. All you have to worry about is not catching some fatal disease or being beaten up or murdered. I think prostitution in general has to go on my Most Unromantic Sexual Encounters list. It makes the giant chicken job look good if you ask me. There’s obviously a lot more to sex than you’d think. Or a lot less.
Walked past a bike shop on the way home. I couldn’t believe the prices! I could buy a motorized scooter for that! Disha said I should look for a second-hand one in Loot.
When Sigmund saw the hole in my door where I tried to put on the lock he lost it completely, as per usual. Blah blah blah. It’s hard to believe he gets paid to LISTEN to people. I’ve never heard him keep his mouth shut for more than two seconds. He says I’ve TOTALLY ruined the door and that now he’ll have to get a new one – and God Knows How Much That’s Going to Cost. I said to make sure he got one with a lock.
I practically rubbed my fingers to the bone trying to get the ketchup out of my new trousers, but you can still see it, so I bought a bottle of black dye to hide the stain. It looks pretty easy. You just dump it all in the washing machine.