I woke up with predictable butterflies over my imminent assembly; everything seems fine until suddenly you realise. I got into school feeling like a condemned prisoner and the deliberate mocking and jocular wishes of “bad luck” didn’t make me feel any better. The assembly was held in the Common Room and there I was, along with Ingham, in front of the fifty plus sixths and sevenths. I was terrible and suffered classic nerves; dry mouth, trembling hands and flushed face. God it must’ve been boring, me with my monotone voice and incoherent diction! Some people said they couldn’t hear me.
Afterwards, I felt like a great weight had gone off my shoulders and I sat gratefully in the library writing up my essay for Hirst. Alison Hudson came in and asked me if I was going to her party in July: "Everyone's invited!" I said OK, and it's something to look forward to (?) Otherwise, nothing really thrilling.
The news just lately is nothing but a succession of murders; the two who’ve buried their babies, all these phone tappings, riots and general upset. Chequebook journalism. Pathetic.
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