The Winterfood Diaries

The Winterfood Diaries

Tuesday, 31 July 1990

Who Remains?

VERY EARLY AM

I’m at my Mum’s.

Even as I write this, in the darkness, Freddie is suffering what could well turn into another heart attack.  I haven’t been feeling too close to him lately and we rarely see eye to eye, but I hope he pulls through and gets well – and VERY soon.  It really is not nice to see this kind of thing happening to him (or, indeed, anyone).  He doesn’t deserve this agony and he doesn’t deserve an untimely death.  If there’s anyone out there that answers the prayers of someone who believes prayers go unheard, then please keep him safe.  I wouldn’t wish this, I wouldn’t wish death, upon anyone.  And spare a thought for Betty, who loves him dearly despite their recent differences, but most of all spare a thought for little baby Chip, who truly loves and needs his daddy.

I pray for your deliverance, Freddie.

Later:

LATE

EPILOGUE

‘Sun King/Mean Mr Mustard/Polythene Pam/She Came In Through the Bathroom Window’ – The Beatles

Work was shite. 

I also rang two factories to find out if they had any jobs going.  Nothing.  Typical.  Can’t even get my nightmare job.  Pretty sure I’d be rubbish in a factory, though.

OK, just stay calm, Ritcherd.  Save up your money and then you can work out how to go about seeking your fortune.  Like The Beatles did.  They had to do all the ordinary stuff first, and then when they’d done all that they found a way of doing whatever they wanted.  I’m telling myself this simply because if I don’t then I’m going to fall into the pit again…

I rang Larry Goodgirl for help and he told me I should send my CV to his theatre and apply for the Assistant Stage Manager job.  I have applied now, but given my sheer lack of experience in that area of theatre I doubt I’ll get it.  Honestly?  They’d be stupid to give me the job.

Flash rang and I love hearing from him.  I hope life is happier for him at the moment.  Well, it seems to be anyway.

I’m going to bed.  I’ve to be up for a pile of shit tomorrow, so I’ll probably have a cry whilst I’m in bed. 

It makes me sick.

I’m reconsidering my options regarding the possibility of going to university now, too.

Well, July is obviously reaching its end now, isn’t it?  Yes, I think so.  On a suicidal note, it seems.  Goodbye, July.  I wish it could have been sweeter.  August approaches.  I hope it brings hope.

Farewell for now,
Ritcherd xxx

[AND THAT’S HOW JULY 1990 ENDED, FOLKS!  WHAT IS HAPPENING TO RITCHERD?  IS HE REALLY LOSING CONTROL?  IN 1995 HE WILL TOTALLY LOSE IT.  HE WILL ALSO GO THROUGH MORE CHANGE.  BUT REST ASSURED, THE FUTURE WILL BE BRIGHT (THOUGH OFTEN BLEAK) WITH LOTS OF STUFF GOING ON.  I KNOW THIS BECAUSE I WRITE TO YOU FROM 1995.  WHO REMAINS FIVE YEARS FROM NOW?  FLASH, LILITH, FERGIE, MAGGIE, ELBOW AND STAN.  ANYWAY.  READ ON.

Ritcherd
ODEON CINEMA, ST ALBANS
18/AUG/1995]


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Next time: ‘Miranda plans…’

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