London Diary





No more sunny days. I came down with a terrible cold. Fifty hours of shivering and sweating, stuffed nose, watery eyes. Must have had a bad fever. Swallowed lots of aspirins and managed to sleep most it off.

Curious dream from which I woke up soakingly wet, with acute pricks of panic: I climbed up the stairs to Ricky's appartment, but the steps were made of sponge rubber, and it felt as if climbing a steep hill on deck of a small boat, in full sea in the middle of a raging storm. I arrived in a dimly lit room, utterly exhausted. The room was empty, except for a large cardboard box filled with rusty old coins. Ricky stood facing the window, her back turned toward me. She was looking at a blinking neon-sign outside on the other side of the street.

-*n*man-, it said.

She moved her head sideways, smiled vaguely, then began to peel off her yellow plastic dress, slowly, tearing it down in bits and pieces, as if it were the skin of a banana.