Through a tremendous act of discipline, I have at last propelled myself back home. I had money. I could have gone out, indeed I was expected to. P---- was stoned and I could have been too. But sheer force of will prevailed.
I have a toothache and will be going to the dentist tomorrow.
I’m waiting on my Ovaltine money before I get a new flat, in case you’re wondering.
I’m stripped of ideas, but I’ll write anyway. I’ve moved a desk into my bedroom. I’m going for a facial on Thursday.
I never want to go out again. It is pleasure without pain. Leisure without work. It inspires a feeling of guilt in me ... and therefore winds up being not very pleasurable at all.
I’m going to have to move soon or not at all. This diary must seem like a book of procrastinations.
(Mt Waverley)
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Hmmn. I remember how hard it was in those days, forcing myself to work. Sitting down at a desk was at least half the battle. It was so easy just to coast in the hedonistic dream of a wastrel, and it took a long long time before I learnt the tricks to generating my own volition. Nourishing the seeds of guilt were a part of it. I hate to feel useless even now. I hate to reward myself unless I feel I’ve done something to deserve it.
That facial sticks in my memory. Troy had arranged it for me with a Polish beautician in Glenhuntly Rd, Elsternwick. He may even have accompanied me, as I recall his introducing me to the vol-au-vent at a cafe nearby. It's the only facial I remember having in the entirety of my existence. I recall the blackhead removal apparatus and the phrase 'congested skin'; I recall that the beautician was from Krakow.
For months afterwards, I applied product to my face from a variety of tiny Ella Bache sample tubes which she had given me.
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