Despatch from the frontier

 Beach log day 23 ….or 24? I can only hope that future explorers find this diary, which I will wrap in the last of the cling film; supplies are running low and with no means of communication or transportation I fear starvation may be my fate.

My activity levels are low as my physical health declines; the wound on my foot remains sore and I suspect infection; it may be that amputation or death awaits me. As my body runs down so too does my mental health; I am conversing with the ants. Yesterday I set an obstacle course for the Roomba to provide her with an activity, yet when a neighbour waved across the fence I hid, shaking, behind the sofa until all chance of socialisation had passed. 

But I am not short of company; the characters from my books have come to life and guide my decisions. I made the grave error of reading all the Patrick Melrose novels in 36 hours and now my shack is peopled with bitter posh people that whine about the heat and encourage me to drink with breakfast. 

Breakfast is toast. Lunch is toast. I have a quarter of a cauliflower and an apple for dinner but I find the prospect unappealing; they are not toast. The vodka has gone, the wine has gone, only beer remains and that not for much longer; common sense would suggest that sobriety would improve my situation but common sense has not been my companion since many days past. 

I will swim now and allow the shock of the cold water to restore me to my senses; sadly the period of lucidity offered by the sea grows shorter and shorter with each passing day; it may be that soon the summer will have completely overtaken my reason. The prospect is frightening but still, in my disordered state, I find a strange appeal in the thought of such madness.