52

Saturday, 5th April – In Whitianga. Crossed over on the ferry from the other side of the harbour; now we’re eating at a rather Innsmouth-like seaside inn. How are things going? It’s hard to tell – well enough, to all appearances. Have to find a way of doing your own thing without inhibiting the other.


Later … – Failed. “No spark there,” was the only coherent thing that came out of the whole discussion. I knew it was over by the end of the drive back from Coromandel on Monday, but had to wait till Thursday to hear it confirmed (after an excursion to see those Topp Twin turkeys in concert). One gets a bit tired of rolling with the punches sometimes, but I suppose there’s no alternative.

More thoughts. Was I really in love? No: fascinated, beguiled, on the highway to, but not there yet – it’s melted away almost entirely now. Cashed in that horrible treatment, though – le priapisme, c’est l’homme. An unusually futile criterion.