I met Sarah for a coffee after yesterday's entry. Warm summery air. Costa in the North Laine full of too much noise; clanking caffeine machines and squealy pre-teens. Slow talk with Sarah, stretched over an hour or so.
Headed down Pavilion Gardens afterwards with the Guardian. Sat and flicked through the Review (a not very good article on Donna Tartt) and pondered whether to join Sarah / Caution / Anwen in the pub that afternoon. Sudden swirl of anxiety. Couldn't imagine entering the pub. Decided to go home, feeling somewhat melancholy.
Tried to catch the bus home. Bus driver didn't have change for a £5:00 note (a single fare is £2:40). Took my £5 back and decided to walk home instead.
Afternoon runs on. Melancholy deepens to something darker. Finish a book I'm reading on notorious Gloucester serial killers Fred and Rose West. Find an old diary from 1999. Last desperate days in Worcester, then that summer that followed, full of apocalypse and depression and absence. Too many parallels to be drawn with now. 27 them, 42 now, and still some things seem to stay the same.
Summery twilight, wood pigeons, and, again, I'm walking through someone else's carnival. Mood lifts as night fall - always the same with depression. Talk about this with Andy when he gets home from work - heard this from other sources too. Wonder why, but certainly true. Depression is worse during daylight hours.
Talk to Emily.
Spend a good few hours working on a comic strip memoir of my time in Worcester. Have two pages done now. Go to sleep at about 2:30am. Wake up this morning at 9:00am.
First afternoon of summer now.
