I decided to go get my ticket tomorrow after I’d found out what was happening with the strike.
After frustrating attempts to work all morning, we all congregated in the car park, piled into the minibus, and were driven by Mr. Gray down to the Film Theatre for Sabotage, an adaptation of Conrad's The Secret Agent, set in the 'fifties. There were only fifteen of us in the entire place and the play was so ham we couldn’t do a thing for laughing.
While everyone else went back to school I went up to the train station. It didn’t take long before I'd resigned myself to not going, the blokes at the counter cheerfully telling me to try arrange alternative transport.
In Art, something Mr. Hine said struck me, expressed half jokingly but in that bumbling, naive sort of way he often talks: "It's a sad thing about life. You're just ready to understand and be wise about things, but then you’re ready to die. It’s depressing so I try not to think about it. . . .” And he is so harmless; he wouldn’t hurt a fly. People like that die all the time.