Monday, November 9, 1981
It was pretty faceless at school on the whole and I spent the second period tittle-tattling with Claire.
After school I rang Robert about the Cross End match tomorrow and he rang back with bus times etc. I'll have to miss the last two periods, including a History test.
First Mum, then Dad, moaned on at me about “priorities,” about “floating off watching ruddy football.” Says Dad: “You’ll have no ‘A’-levels, nothing, and you can go join ’rest of ‘em on t' dole.” Mum ranted on about me wasting my potential; Dad said he never sees me doing any studying. And that’s the part that rankles the most, because it’s all so true and that's why it hurts. I never do do any work and I can feel my opportunities sliding irrevocably away. . . . Everywhere I turn (I think) I’m assailed by problems. I’m wasting my one real chance. I’m a bloody idiot!