August 1

A weekend at Bronte possessed by the irascible and antisocial spirit of my father, walking and drinking tea and ignoring the world. I feel anxious and worried and plagued by hormonal doubts about my future, romantic and otherwise. Until Klaus Masannek resurfaces I'm living in limbo and I resent it. I have forgotten the colour of Marcinski's eyes and I'm ashamed but vindicated- it means we've been apart too long. He doesn't seem to mind as much as I do, being possessed of endless Slavic patience (and stubbornness), but I'm starting to seriously wonder if it can go on like this for much longer without falling apart.

Later and home from work- back on the Arabic project, though this time only half the conversation is represented so that the translation looks something like this:

condoms, singlets and underwear

sexy movies

no

blue

Abu Mohammad

two meters

green

bombs Kalashnikovs and RGB lunchers

They've given me a semi-real job and a chance to work on Arabic and learn something about the way a project is run and I feel slightly guilty: plenty of bilingual Arabs more competent than me are still labouring away in transcription hell. I feel -as so often- like an imposter which is one of my major causes for anxiety (the other being atrophy of my genitals after half a year of disuse). In fact everything is really OK - I am doing an interesting job, I have been encouraged to pursue something I love by someone I admire -Jim Martin told me that he hopes I become a linguist because I really do have more than what it takes-, I'm having a functional relationship, I have enough money that I don't have to think about it for the moment. The only thing is that I can't shake the idea that I should be pursuing animal happiness up a Himalaya instead of cultivating urban neurosis as I hunch over my computer hoping that nobody will find out I'm not really a grown up. Physical immobility doesn't suit me - ask my neglected reproductive organs.