March

I spent all day in Easterby but bought nothing except a book by Tolstoy, My Childhood & Boyhood, a 1919 first edition, for 65p. Everything was cold and bright.

As I wended my dejected way to the bus, I saw a straggling line of marchers, several hundred strong coming down Dyson Street and turning onto Beck Street. Every faction of the left seemed to be represented–the Young Communist League, the North East Anarchist Federation, a column about four-five deep, that took several minutes to shamble past. “Whose Conspiracy? Police Conspiracy! Free The Whincliffe 9!” and “What Do We Want? Drop The Charges! When Do We Want It? Now!” they chanted raggedly. I was fascinated by the black and red flags of the anarchist Federation and I chased after them, pacing along at the side and bumping into Deborah who said, “I expected to see you marching." This depressed me somewhat.

At half-six I set off for school and the Drama Society production of Twelfth Night. I managed to get up on to the Careers balcony with the lighting and sound crew where I stayed throughout the play. Lee rolled up at about quarter-past seven and we watched the 150 seats fill up. In came Claire with her boy friend in tow. Jeremy was really good, better by far than anyone else, and Steve was easily the worst–so wooden. It was hilarious in parts and very well done. At the interval we went down for a coffee and Claire virtually ignored me.

After it was all over, we went down to the FE Lounge for the ‘party.' There were quite a lot of people there but Deborah mentioned Evelyn again, and then came all the inevitable nudge-nudge, wink-wink and leg-pulling from all and sundry. Says Deborah, “You must be more appealing than Steve!” It all got quite wild, with people rushing about spraying each other with green hair dyes.

I despondently accepted a lift home from Nigel Muff.