I went out for a long walk and got really quite a few decent ideas for my play during this walk, which took just under two hours. For many people in my experience walking in the city is not really walking at all, and they see no purpose in doing it. They think me rather eccentric, which I am, but walking is not a symptom of that eccentricity. Country walking is what is valued but I see no essential difference - the streets are as full of interest as is the countryside, perhaps more so. Lambeth was the most interesting part of my walk today. Had tea in the Express Dairy in King's Road. I always enjoy this place. Total cost: 3d.My memory has been troubling me. Recall is the problem - names of people; names of places; titles of books. It is infuriating (and worrying) to know that you know something, but are unable to bring it to mind. And then, later, when your mind is on something else, it pops up. A mystery. And what is a memory anyway? It has become obvious to me over time that even things you feel confident about, remembering I mean, can prove to be unreliable or even downright wrong. Only a few weeks ago I was talking to Geoffrey Russell about a play I had seen some years ago; he looked puzzled and, when we explored it, it became apparent that I could not have seen it. I wasn't lying; I sincerely believed that I remembered seeing it. So this was a false memory, a fabrication. How much of memory is false then? I am starting to think that very little is accurately remembered, at least not by me. What about Proust? I have found his writing impenetrable, though I don't doubt that it contains within its borders several small masterpieces, but have not questioned its veracity. Does it matter?
Some rather wearing visits anticipated from relatives I scarcely ever see and whose course of existence is separating from me more widely every year, and has been doing for over 30 years. It is, as a fact, desolating.
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