The Angry Corrie 18: Apr-Jun 1994

Hill Diaries: Philip Larkin


With Amis for lunch in the Adelfi Jazz Club. Discussed various things: Dr Beeching, Dizzy's third solo on his new RCA cut, the two Braithwaite sisters we met at last Friday's party. (Kingsley claimed to have "got off" with the younger, big- bosomed one, whilst I had been less successful with blonde Margot. I don't like bookish men with specs, she had said as I groped her in the closet.) Then there was talk of that little squib Hughes, who seems to write of nothing but crows and hawks and wolves. Why can't he deal with trains, ambulances and empty churches like me? Maybe he's not man enough, said Amis.

Let him see a draft of my new poem:

They fuck you up, your mum and dad.
They may not mean to, but they do.
They drag you up loads of hills as a lad:
Bidean, Schiehallion, The Cobbler too...

Amis said he thought it a reasonable idea, but in need of a few changes. Hope he doesn't mean the sweary bit.

Afterwards, returned to afternoon of graft at the library. Various boring stuff needed shelving - short stories by some dagos and wops, a batch of novels by so-called "women writers". Don't know how much longer I can stick this provincial town. Hull, Hull, Hull... it's oh so dull. Sat gazing out of mezzanine window across bland Lincolnshire flatlands, thinking of the Coe. Scunthorpe, Grimsby, Bridlington... give me Rannoch Wall any day.

TAC 18 Index

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