Oh, I am grown old for this town.

I should move, no I should. It's a town for children, it really is. Everything here aspires to the condition of the infant, adoring of both innocence and incontinence. Oh, oh, an example. I was taking a quick brandy with an antiquarian friend when I spotted a flyer for an Ibsen play. Having a weakness for the Norwegian's cruel determinism I decided to go but, once again, it was another fusion of dance, jazz and camp, a mix of everything and therefore nothing, all, obviously, in the manner of Ibsen. I was appalled at this dissolution of a text into an onanistic showcase. The town is known for its liberality but it tends to extend this into a celebration of any personal expression whatsoever. It is such a gullible place. You could chew a piece of gum and it would draw a crowd. No I have to leave, I really do. One could make a postmodern apologia for the place, but no. It has an unbearable innocence and, under that, an inevitable pit of despair, depression and drugs. Yet it relentlessly celebrates youth and youth alone. And, of course, the old come here to be youthful, too. But they are missing a trick. Assuredly, one of the deep pleasures of life is accepting the age you are. No, I have to go. I shall ring George and tell him.

Later, after the show, I sat with an Australian girl. We spoke of nothing. However, I noticed her thighs and, after that, sat there, admiring her conversational skills.

This place will be the death of me.