I made a point of getting in in time for registration, saw the very first copy of the new school magazine, Interface–it looks pretty good–and also went and talked to Mr. Giles about his American Studies degree at Watermouth. He said it would suit me, and everything about the way he spoke and his tone seemed to say that this is the thing I'll be doing next September. Other than that, school as piteous as ever, feeling empty, a nothing, a mere shadow with no depth or interest. I endured several embarrassing moments where I collapsed into blushes and glaring inadequacy, self-recrimination then developing into hatred for others.
At three I wandered home. Claire called round with some carbon paper and then I packed and and went back to school for five-thirty, where the seven others going on the Chapelside trip were waiting. Jackson, Liz Buckle and Tina Stanley turned up with the minibus and we all piled in and wallowed and roared our way over to pick Mr. Scott up. We got to Chapelside and Sawthwaite Valley at about ten or so after stopping in a couple of pubs on the way.
We were soon all busy preparing food in the cold whitewashed stone kitchen of our cottage. A few ex-students arrived–Michelle Sands, Tracy Bairstow, Andrew Thornber. . . . I hit the sack at one.
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