Diary of a Drug Fiend

Indian Summer 173 I’m not sure and it doesn’t matter, but I think the landlady—I can never remember the woman’s name, she reminds me of those dreadful days in Naples—told us that she stole some things from a shop and went to jail. It was a great nuisance, because I had to put my clothes on and call on Mabel. Luckily, she was in and had a whole lot of it. We must have been increasing the dose very fast :, but I can’t be sure, because we don’t keep track of it or of the days either. Counting things is so despicable. One feels so degraded. Surely that’s the difference between spirit and matter. It’s bestial to be bounded. Cockie agrees with me about this. He thinks I’m writing rather wonderful things. But as soon as we come down to ordinary affairs, we quarrel all the time. We snap about nothing at all. The reason is evident. Having to talk destroys the symphony of silence. It’s hateful to be interrupted; and it interrupts one to be asked to pass a cigarette. I wasn’t going to be bothered to go out again, so I made Mabel give me all she could spare. She promised to get some more and send it round next Sunday. ... We're not very well, either of us. It must be this dark, dirty room and the bad atmosphere; and the street noises get on my nerves. We could go to Barley Grange, but it’s too much trouble. Besides, it might break the spell of our happi- ness. We're both a little afraid about that. It happened once before, and we don’t want to take any chances. It wants a lot of clever steering to keep the course. For instance, we took too much one night and made ourselves sick. It took three or four hours to get back, and that was absolute hell. My heart is a little fretful at times. It’s certainly great, Peter Pan having medical knowledge. He went out and got some strychnine and put me right. Champagne helps H. quite a lot. Youmustn’t drink it off. The thing to do is to sip it very slowly. It helps one to move one’s hands.