right

there is a little black kitten in our room at the moment, it is the smallest little thing ever. he has a name but i have forgotten it. last night he fell asleep on me when we were watching tv in bed. i didn't really like cats that much until now.

what else? when you go on holiday you expect things to be happening all the time - an overflow of sensory data. but that never really happens, and at times it can be dissappointing, but you have to remember that it is nice to sort of...do nothing sometimes when you are on holiday.

this place is mental. mental but good. there are two maids in roualla's house. you just say "can i have some coke?" and they bring it to you on a tray. i dunno how that makes me feel. but the view from her house is enough to dispell any strange feelings - it faces north towards Tripoli and you can see all of the buildings on the coastline and the mountains as well. the sea from here looks perfect.

the poet in me has gone. totally. i cannot write poems anymore. but prose? it comes pouring out of me. sometimes in the car (you have to get everywhere by car - traffic jams etc) i am half conscious, writing in my head. that is the worst, because by the time you have your writing materials all of the little details you were going to put in your story have vanished - even what it was about, who it was for. but there are some stories.