Tuesday, April 20, 1982
Andrew went back to College at eight a.m.
I wore my baggy black trousers to school which caused some amusement. On the whole though, it was a faceless day characterised only be renewed feelings of guilt, desperation-cum-panic and a sort of grimly humorous fatalism. Hirst's English is the one I really worry about; four novels/plays and I haven’t even read The Secret Agent yet.
Giles was faced with a class full of discontented, disillusioned and restless people. He said the expected post-mock malaise has come late for us and still has no signs of abaiting. Seven weeks to go.
A History test on Imperialism last lesson.
When I got home from Art I was bollocked ferociously by Mum. She'd discovered the school bag she bought me for Christmas splashed and dribbled with paint as I'd tried to cover up that awful Sport International logo. I endured her thin-lipped razor-tongued lashings, her accusations of “lunacy” and “childishness,” her condemnations of my abject laziness and selfishness, etc. “We wasted £50 on a record player you never use . . . £30 on a rusty old bike . . . God help you on your ‘A’ level course if you think that’s Art – it’s rubbish!” and so on. Finally she said, “If you come creeping round looking for an 18th birthday present then you can just get knotted.”
She was almost in tears at one point, and claimed I was laughing in her face. Dad joined in and condemned me for looking round second-hand shops for clothes that are “out of style.” I could only lamely respond with, “It doesn’t matter!”
I retreated upstairs in confusion, feeling sorry but still angry at the verbal lashing I'd got. I’ve stayed in my bedroom all evening, reading an article about Conrad. It's now 10 p.m. and I’ve still got to write an essay for Hirst on a book I haven’t read and revise for another History test tomorrow.