I realised yesterday that It has reached the fucked up point where there are fewer of my classmates left than have snuffed it since we left school. The really obscene thing, when you think about it, is that I sort of knew it was coming: I knew it had been a while since I lost someone, so I kind of guessed that sometime soon I would get a letter or email or phonecall. That sounds pessimistic, but it’s the truth – a truth arising as a consequence of having been to a special school. Thus I find myself wanting to write another entry like this, wanting to tell you about the good times. Lee Mayer was a good bloke: I wrote about him in a piece of my GCSE coursework; he came to see me when I was at uni, and even cooked for me once or twice. I was eager for him to come and see me and Lyn down here, and I was looking forward to showing him around south London. That isn’t going to happen now.

Not again. Fuck.