I didn’t get up until midday; after Nanna P. even. I was just a bit annoyed as I had wanted to get on with my History essay but as it was, what with talking and reading the paper, I never actually got started properly.
Instead, I just sat in the dining room with my file open. Dad went to bed when he came home at two, so I couldn’t play records until six, when he got up.
The essay was so difficult; knowing where to start and exactly what to write. It wasn’t made easy by the fact that I hadn’t my book in which Marxism is strictly identified.
By about teatime I had more or less resigned myself to the fact that I wasn’t going to finish it so I will have to crawl to Ingham tomorrow. I feel a bit uncertain about this. I hate this feeling of impending disaster almost – I’ve so much to do and to buy. Of my four subjects I still only have ‘proper’ notes for History; English, Biology and Art are only being done by halves at the moment. I really will have to buy files and things.
I had a bath and things in the evening and watched television while my hair dried; I kept thinking about those four having their meal at Harrogate and wondering what was happening. An ace programme on at half-eleven was “Seven Ages” Part 2, about growing up. Tonight’s programme concerned teenage and adolescence, and it really put me and my obsessions in perspective – I’m so bloody predictably adolescent. Everything I think and do; it all conforms with the old cliché of what my age is supposed to be like.
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