Friday, April 23, 1982
I stayed up late last night writing an essay for Slicer and generally just contentedly bodging around. I was in a good mood when I went to school and yet couldn’t help but notice how on the whole I'm isolated from everyone.
I was a bit upset, annoyed and conscience-stricken by Hirst's revelation that the English staff are worried about me and that at my present rate I’ll be lucky to get an ‘E.’ She said that Mr. Gray showed her my Tuesday test essay on Imperialism was an “empty painted egg” full of elegant language but nothing else. I could only counter by lamely saying “Wait and see. Everyone might be surprised.”
Steve said I look as if I'm on “on drugs already” (?)
While we were having tea, Mum and Dad told me about the hundreds of Muslims praying on the grass surrounding Marlborough Immigrant Centre, a numberless array of shoes in the car park. As we ate, two enormous black crows hopped about the garden.
I watched Something Else from Whincliffe and a bitter, angry and defiant one man play by David Khan: its rawness and violence shocked me, but what do I know of social injustice? I speak empty words from my cocoon of middle-class respectable best-breaks-in-everything life. I get the best opportunities for education yet I can't be bothered utilising them. I don't know the first thing about real work, the kind of work endured daily by millions.