Monday – Took yesterday’s proceeds to the West End where I made three purchases – Robert Aickman, Arthur Machen and Henry James. Passing the university, I bumped into Peter Baldock: naturally, he wanted to know what I was doing with myself and seemed disgruntled by my response. “These are hobbies,” he scowled. “You can’t expect tax-payers to support you while you sit around doodling.”
Returning home, I noticed that my right sock was sodden with blood: a nail hanging from one toe had chafed against the skin of another: it hardly seems conceivable that so much blood could emanate from such a slight wound. Despite thirty minutes scrubbing with soap suds, the leather remains stained – I don’t suppose anyone will notice: it’s irksome, though.
