Thursday, January 7, 1982


I was up working into the early hours and got seven rough sides done of an essay for Hirst, so I didn't get to school until break. There was a thick frost everywhere.

Most of the rest of the day I worked in the library. Claire asked if Evelyn had invited me to the dinner on Saturday: she had, but my mumbling, grimacing, hot-faced response made me regret my incompetent appearance. I finished copying up my essay dead on four. . . . Art was OK, but it was incredibly cold on the way home.

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