Monday, February 1, 1982
I was almost excited (?) about getting back to school and I got in at ten, but boredom reduced me and Lee to childish levels (throwing spoons, crude conversations, sword fights with metre rulers, etc.). Tuts from the sixth years. This week's journeys to Brynmor and Watermouth loom over everything: at four I had to go into Easterby to book my ticket to Watermouth for Thursday. Dad’s taking me to Brynmor on Wednesday.
Dad told me that Great Uncle Gordon died on Saturday, aged eighty seven. All those experiences and emotions, all that knowledge, the things he thought about and felt as a young man, now gone and lost forever. I sometimes think how pointless it all is.
Film smuggled out of Poland show wreaths being laid in the aftermath of the December 16th trouble . . . . Dad (on comparisons between Poland and Toxteth): “There’s a vast difference. In Toxteth we’re dealing with criminals, but in Poland they’re just ordinary people.”