First visit to London and Singing in agony

Hurrah, we’re in London, in the Grosvenor Court Hotel: a nice, very comfortable room with a bath, shower, television, radio, and an electric kettle to make coffee and tea. It is so lovely and costs sixty-three guilders a night.

It’s foggy here, but it’s supposed to be — we’re in London after all. The poet and I are happy like children.

Thank God I brought my camera this time. I regret that I don’t have any photos of our trip to the Middle East.

The poet and I are watching television from bed; it’s so much better than Dutch TV.

I bought a lovely grey suit today and a silk blouse, beautiful and inexpensive. I’ve got to get shoes to match, and I’ll be in fine feather for springtime.

I’ve got a meeting with the manager of the Hilton Hotel here tomorrow morning. We saw the poet’s gay friend Teddy today in his gorgeous shop on King’s Road. We’ll take a tour of the city tomorrow. The weather is quite nice, mild with some rain now and then.

I bought beautiful black shoes today and a red sweater. We didn’t do the tour yet because a friend of the poet came by and stayed so long. We’ll have to do it tomorrow then.

Tuesday, we went to a supper club here, Morton’s, where Bobby Relax played the piano. It’s an elegant place on Berkeley Square. We also want to visit Shouki’s sister Tammy.

Bobby took us to another place when he had finished playing, and I rode on a double-decker bus for the first time in my life. The poet and I gambled on the boat coming over and lost fifty guilders.

We’re on the train from Vlissingen to Amsterdam. It was a great little holiday. I loved the tour of the city, seeing the Tower where so many historical figures were imprisoned and beheaded: Thomas More, Anne Boleyn, Elizabeth I, and so many others.

We visited Teddy, the poet’s homo friend, and I thought I would die laughing; the man is full of hilarious anecdotes. I hope we can go back soon, and we definitely have to do the theatre next time.

Not a dog listens to me when I sing and play the guitar at Count Floris V in Muiden; babies scream, the microphone distorts the sound horribly, beer mats fly around, stamping, yelling, laughter, taunting remarks… it’s a fucking disaster!

I keep singing as if nothing’s the matter, but little by little, minute after minute, I die, I shrivel up. Now and then I revive: I won’t put up with you goddamn idiots!

Applause — that’s nice — but then the buzz starts up again and gets louder all the time, and I get more tired, more and more and more.

Thank God, at last it’s ten o’clock. It’s over.

What a flop, what a dark abyss. I am utterly exhausted.