The Torture Begins
October 18, 2013

My dear friend Lulu and I have just been a week in our new house, “The Vapours,” Brickfield Terrace, Holloway—a rank six-roomed residence, not counting a basement which emits a faint aroma of boiled fungus, with a front breakfast-parlour.  We have a little front garden; and there is a flight of ten steps up to the front door, which, of course, we keep locked with the chain up. Alan, Danny and our other intimate friends always come to the little side entrance, which saves poor Lulu the trouble of going up to the front door, thereby taking her from the work of cataloguing my extensive and occasionally insalubrious collection of pop trousers.

We have a hideous little back garden which runs down to the railway. Judicious placement of a trampoline should allow me to hurl myself directly from the bedroom window and into the path of the 9:25 to Barking with comforting alacrity, should my fierce habitual desire for self-annihilation ever overcome my equally habitual but thus far even fiercer ennui.

Should ennui triumph as usual, however, this journal will at least chart my descent into madness. But will that be enough, O Posterity, to stuff your gaping maw? Will you want details too?

Very well, then. Details you shall have:

It rained. Breakfast was a gruesome kipper. The dank day stretches endlessly ahead, vulgar, languid, inane.

Satisfied?

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