Fuck.

Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck.

What a fucking mess I've made. Simone, you stupid bitch, you stupid, stupid bitch.

I lost my temper with Margaret last night and walked out. Walked out on all of them while we were at the Raj. She had been winding me up all evening with her endless talk about Sergei the damned Russian cyclist, and all her usual, stupid sexual innuendo. It was really getting to me.

But then she started on about her first love, and began telling this story about when they first nearly did it. They were fumbling with each other's clothing, and this and that, and then she felt the size of his dick. It was really small, and she said how disappointed she was; she wanted something better for her first time and decided to get rid of the boy. And this is when I lost it, because it took me straight back to Steve, all those years ago. The parallels are uncanny, and it isn't a laughing matter. The sheer arrogance of the woman. She started pretending that she didn't want to do it, and that he was forcing her, and he shouldn't do that. Bitch, I thought to myself. How can you fucking joke about this? How can you tell an amusing story about someone else's misery? I couldn't take any more of it, so I just said "I'm bored, and I've got to get ready to go to Derby," and walked out. How stupid can you get?

Did I discuss it with her? Did I speak to her about it? Tell her I thought her conversation inappropriate, or boorish? No, I didn't. I took the immature approach and stormed out, like a petulant little schoolgirl. What will she think of me? I expect they were laughing about it for hours afterwards. Silly Simone's taken pet...

And why didn't I? Why didn't I have it out with her? After all, I, of all people, had pretty good cause to. Well, and I'm ashamed to admit this, it's because despite how much Margaret was winding me up, it was really myself I was annoyed with, and I was taking it out on Margaret. Transference of guilt, a classic case, and Margaret was the ideal vehicle for my ire.

I was really disappointed with my own behaviour throughout the evening, and feeling pretty low about it. First off, I stripped off my tee-shirt in the middle of the restaurant. Damn me, I thought, even bloody Margaret wouldn't do that: what are you trying to do, girl, keep up with her? And then, because I was uncomfortable about that, I took it out on poor Jim, humiliating him by telling the story - for the millionth time - of when he got suspended. Poor kid just took it, as he always does, with a smile on his face, but I felt so bloody awful about doing it to him. So Margaret was an excuse. When she started on the story about her boyfriend I leapt onto the moral high ground and started casting judgements on her, but in the cold light of day, I can see that it was purely a way to exorcise my own guilt. What a stupid, stupid bitch.

And there's something else. But I don't dare write that down yet. I don't even dare think about it, because it's too crazy to contemplate. I'm off to Derby in a few minutes, and I think the break will do me good.

I'm off. I'll write again soon.

On to next story: Trip to Derby