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.