My excuse for not writing in this diary more often is that I do not have any ink for my favourite ink pen. A typically feeble writer’s excuse. I have also been seeing Veronika in the evenings during the week and in the day at the weekend, so I haven’t had so much time.
I’ve probably done about 3-4 hours on the novel this last seven days. I did 30 minutes this morning. Quite depressed about its overall form. Thinking about totally rewriting the last two-thirds.
Got through to the gallery, asked for V, a male voice said “Ah!” and went away. I stood listening to The Greatest Waltzes of R. Strauss or whatever the music was that they were playing down the phonelines. Eventually, I hung up. When I tried again the line was engaged.
Last night when I used the phone to try calling Misty they seemed to be playing some cool jazz. Okay, it’s very nice, but it doesn’t stop when you get through. It also gives the disconcerting impression that you are listening to the radio of the Soviet spy who is bugging your line1.
8:15. Met Karl at Moskevská2. Went with Misty, Kimberley to V’s house3. Watched MTV and ate toasties and drank beers.
Landline phones did behave strangely. Young-Toby later is convinced he hears one ring when disconnected. And there are often strange whirrs and clicks, as of someone joining the call in an unsubtle way. The phone line to Barbora’s flat is shared — a party line — so occasionally, when you want to dial out, you pick up and hear an ongoing conversation. It’s difficult to know whether to apologise or not.
I think this must be the place for which I have directions on two blank bills from Pražské Restaurace. They read: B Line/ Moskevska/ 2 exits/ follow signs to “BUS”/ exit first on left MOTORLET/ Bus Stop 137/ 2 stops – 2nd stop/ cross road immediately/ 2nd right fork. (old building/ pretty pictures) – pass road on/ right (little houses) – 2nd right/ alleyway with steps 200 yards/ left T-junction 1st house/ on right./ In door/ downstairs to bottom/ bottom corridor on right/Second from end door on right/piece of dead wood.’ The lost art of biro-scribbled geolocation.
Piece of dead wood.