We keep coming back to this meaning that I lack
2002-09-25 || 9:22 p.m.

Goodness, I don't know what to write tonight.

When I left the house this morning I had a feeling of utter sadness. It was very hard to put one foot in front of the other. I felt just sad at being me.

There's this guy I see every morning when I walk to work. He's really straight looking, wearing a suit and tie etc, he is way younger than me and I don't fancy him at all but when I see him all I can think is how good it would be to take all his clothes off and bite him all over. Maybe I shouldn't say that I think things like that, but I reckon everyone else does too.

Or is it just me?

When I was walking to work this morning I was thinking about what I said about getting married outside, barefoot and painted with henna and I just blame the fact that when I was born the hippies were wearing flowers in their hair etc.

Then I wondered if we influence our environment or if our environment influences us.

And I thought about how when I was really small I promised myself that when I got married I would marry a man exactly like Marc Bolan. At the same time, and I remember it as the same day but I doubt it was, I also remember vowing that when I grew up I would be a hippy.

But then of course punk came along.

I vividly remember the first time I saw any punk. It was June 1977 and it was the Silver Jubilee week. I was on holiday. I was eight. We were watching Top of the Pops and the Stranglers came on. Now I know it must have been 'Peaches' but at the time all I could think was 'what the fuck!' (or my eight year old equivalent which in my case probably would have been 'I say, what on earth is this?') At the time I didn't think of it again particularly but it changed my life.

Definitely.

And so there I was with these two definitions, both of which appealed to me equally: hippy and punk. And I've been the same ever since.

I like walking at the moment. I walk to work every day. I walk back again. At lunchtime I go out and I walk. There is nowhere interesting to go, I can only walk around residential streets but still I walk. I should be doing other stuff like marking and wall displays but that existence is stealing me away and I resent it.

I also resent going to morning prayers with Maria, the biggest hypocrite in the world. I won't say the words. She leads the prayers. Fuck her and fuck her prayers: they mean nothing. Words without action. Words without meaning.

Ok, I confess, I am a good Catholic teacher in a good Catholic school. Fucking honestly! That's why I had to go to mass on Monday evening. But fuck that. I have no faith. But when I see the kids with faith, I'm glad and I hope they never lose it.

I am kind to the children. I don't come screaming in the fucking room telling Richard that I saw him eat the fucking host before it was consecrated. Fuck her. Stupid silly bitch. Does she really think, if Jesus is or was for one minute real, that he would give a flying fuck that Richard ate him at the wrong time? No way. I don't tell them how to hold their hands or to wash them first. Again, fuck her. So they are dirty - who cares? They are showing Jesus respect simply by being fucking lovely kind children, dirt does not matter. I'm busy digging my own grave and shooting myself in the foot simultaneously. One day it will get back to her that the minute she is out of the room I tell them she is wrong. I won't fucking support someone like that. I don't care who she is. SHE IS WRONG.

This is not meant to be a Maria rant.

Sorry.

Alain asked me for something very weird and very strange as a memento of our shattered relationship.

I'm just gutted he took the Sony CD player.

He wanted 'Thunder and Consolation' by New Model Army too but I cannot let him have that. I said I would tape it.

This week I have been listening mostly to Bright Eyes.

Still I can't read.

And I still feel unutterably sad.