My seventeenth birthday. Mum and Dad gave me £10 and a Parker pen. No lessons at school, and early on much hail-fellow-well-met stuff over last night. Deborah was rolling with laughter at the tale of John Emsley and me falling over. She gave me a card, and Robin and Peter loudly wished me a “happy birthday.” Lee gave me a 1960s porno’ mag’ as a gag. Much jocularity.
I saw Claire at break and she gave me two enormous presents, all wrapped up, and I could only weakly say “you shouldn’t have." She gave me a new mug, a writing pad, and some pens. After this I lounged about indolently until one-thirty; I was pretty pleased, especially as I got £2 from Nanna Beardsley when I got home.
I couldn’t be bothered going to Art and listened instead to Dad’s angry tirade over the rioting which has spread to Moss Side in Manchester. It's really bad (good?); hundreds of whites and blacks are using crossbows and petrol bombs against the beleaguered police. I agree with Dad up to a point but bringing in the Army and shooting people is no answer; he gets despairingly annoyed with me when I talk like this. Supposedly the police have identified “well known Trotskyists” at both Moss Side and Toxteth and there are even reports of hooded motorcyclists directing operations! Weird. Mum said that Nanna P has “ a feeling that something awful is going to happen at the Royal Wedding.” We’ll have to see.
I watched TV all evening.