Wednesday, October 28, 1981
Dad on nights so for most of the morning and early afternoon, the house totally silent like a tomb, depression hanging heavily around. I did nothing but sit about, my conscience telling me to do something but my body refusing to cooperate. It was horrible. I got so frustrated and claustrophobic I wanted to scream.
At half-five I set off for school and the trip to Bolton Octagon to see Coriolanus. It was cold and wet once more and I found the fifteen who were going huddled in a doorway, Claire there looking very neat and well-dressed but a bit bedraggled. She sat next to me on the coach and all the way to Bolton through the orange and black sprawl of motorway landscape I talked to her, happy. . . .
We got to there at eight and I sat with her in the gallery. The play was OK, a bit corny in parts, just typical Shakespeare. The fight scenes were poor and when Coriolanus himself nearly fell over during a triumphant and dramatic entrance, the whole audience laughed. At the interval we went to the bar. Thankfully, the second half ended pretty quickly.
Claire and I talked again on the way home but I felt sad when I left the coach because I’m just so far away from anything remotely deeper than friendship.