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349
The Journal of a Disappointed Man
·
W. N. P. Barbellion
125
On
the
'bus,
coming
home,
thro'
streets
full
of
motor
traffic
and
all
available
space
plastered
with
advertisements
that
screamed
at
you,
I
espied
in
front
three
pretty
girls,
who
gave
me
the
"Glad
Eye."
One
had
a
deep,
musical
voice,
and
kept
on
using
it,
one
of
the
others
a
pretty
ankle
and
kept
on
showing
it.
At
Kew,
two
Italians
came
aboard,
one
of
whom
went
out
of
his
way
to
sit
among
the
girls.
He
sat
level
with
them,
and
kept
turning
his
head
around,
giving
them
a
sweeping
glance
as
he
did
so,
to
shout
remarks
in
Italian
to
his
friend
behind.
He
thought
the
girls
were
prostitutes,
I
think,
and
he
may
have
been
right.
I
was
on
the
seat
behind
this
man
and
for
want
of
anything
better
to
do,
studied
his
face
minutely.
In
short,
it
was
fat,
round,
and
greasy.
He
wore
black
moustachios
with
curly
ends,
his
eyes
were
dark
shining,
bulgy,
and
around
his
neck
was
wrapped
a
scarf
inside
a
dirty
linen
collar,
as
if
he
had
a
sore
throat.
I
sat
behind
him
and
hated
him
steadily,
perseveringly.
At
Hammersmith
the
three
girls
got
off,
and
the
bulgy-eyed
Italian
watched
them
go
with
lascivious
eyes,
looking
over
the
rail
and
down
at
them
on
the
pavement--still
interested.
I
looked
down
too.
They
crossed
the
road
in
front
of
us
and
disappeared.
Came
home
and
here
I
am
writing
this.
This
is
the
content
of
to-day's
consciousness.
This
is
about
all
I
have
thought,
said,
or
done,
or
felt.
A
stagnant
day!
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