affairs and beach stones

29th September 1957

WHY WRITE AGAIN? When I know that I must exercise caution. When I know that to commit my desires to paper is madness. When I know that those screaming bitch types who insist on trolling all over town spoil it for the rest of us. (I saw Gilbert Harding last week in his ghastly Roller, screeching out of the window at some poor lad on a bicycle. I didn't know whether to laugh or cry.)

Why write again? Because today things are different. One might even say everything's changed. And so here I am, writing this journal. And that means indiscretions. But I can't keep quiet about this one. I'm not going to name names – I'm not completely reckless – but I am going to write this: I have met someone.

Why write again? Because Louis Tomlinson, thirty-four, has not given up.

I do think he's perfect. Ideal, even. And it's more than his body (though that is ideal, too).

My affaires – such as they've been, and they've been few – tend to be complicated. Drawn out. Reluctant, perhaps. How others like Charlie get along so damned carefree is beyond me. Those boys at the meat rack have their charms, but it's all so – I won't say sordid, I don't mean that – fleeting. Beautifully, awfully fleeting.

Will burn this after writing. It's one thing to commit oneself to paper; quite another to leave that paper lying about for any pair of eyes to devour.

It took place over a middle-aged lady sitting on a pavement. I was walking along Marine Parade. A bright, warm late- summer morning. The day: Tuesday. The time: approximately

7.30. Early for me, but I was on my way to the museum to catch up on some paperwork. Strolling along, thinking how pleasant it was to enjoy the quiet and the solitude, vowing to get up an hour earlier every day, I saw a car – a cream Ford, I'm sure it was – nudge the wheel of a bicycle. Just gently. There was a slight delay before the bicycle wobbled enough to tip its rider, hands splayed, legs tangled with wheels, on to the pavement. The car drove on regardless, leaving me to hurry over to the woman in distress.

By the time I reached her, she was sitting up on the edge of the kerb, so I knew there was no serious damage. She looked to be in her forties, and her basket and handlebars were loaded with bags of all types – string, paper, some kind of canvas construction – so it wasn't surprising that she'd lost her balance. I touched her on the shoulder and asked if she was all right.

'What does it look like?' she barked. I took a step back. Her voice had venom in it.

'You're shocked, of course.'

'Livid is what I am. That bastard knocked me off.'

She was a sorry sight. Her spectacles lopsided, her hat askew.

'Do you think you can stand?'

Her mouth twisted. 'We need the police here. We need the police, now!'

Seeing I had no alternative but to go along with her wishes, I dashed to the nearest police box on the corner of Bloomsbury Place, thinking I could call from there, leave her with some obliging bobby and get on with the rest of my day.

I've never had much patience with our boys in blue. Have always despised their brutish little ways, their stocky bodies squeezed into thick wool, those ridiculous helmets rammed on their heads like black jam jars. What was it that officer said about the incident at the Napoleon, where that boy was left with half his face carved away from the bone? Damned

pansy's lucky that's all they cut off. I think those were his exact words.

So I wasn't relishing the thought of coming face to face with a policeman. I steeled myself for the evaluating glance up and down, the raised eyebrows in response to my voice. The clenched fists in response to my smile. The chilled relations in response to the cut of my jib.