Dad took the car in, I got my hair cut, and I got into school at ten. Poor poor me, how badly things went. Surface normality, but my puerile, fanatically insignificant mind had a field day, and I couldn’t stand anyone, myself even less.
After History, Mr. Emsley started acting friendly all of a sudden (he saw me at the match on Saturday) and called me by my first name. Several indolent hours in the common room later I walked home with Tim Moyles, Darren Busfield and Peter, ending up at the latter’s house for coffee, and we acted childish and silly, giggling like little girls, being crude and making rumours up about one another. It was gratifying to see Peter uneasy for once: it’s usually the other way round.
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