A hot, stinking day. I felt revoltingly ill and close to death. At 12 we went with Trixie and Pete S to the Five Bells at East Finchley where I performed my 'dead man lying on the floor' routine for anyone who cared to watch. They were all sinking pints of beer like Billy Ho (sic) but all I could do was moan and grovel about in the deep grass with my clammy fingers wrapped feebly round a tomato juice. ________. Trixie Holroyd however is just perfection itself _____.
Another party at Trixie's tonight ~ a dumping ground for homosexuals and Polish refugees with wealthy wives, and women wearing pink pullovers adorned with white beads and with faces that go numb after only two gin & tonics. All called Jack, Beryl, Dick and Celia. The food, chatter, booze and general atmosphere was a delight. Slept in the state bed.
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