Tuesday, May 25, 1982


The riots, egg-fights, unbridled revelries, celebrations, etc., half threatened all week, seemed distant in the morning. I knocked all three lessons today and a lot of other people seemed to be doing the same; we all sat about bored. Claire was away again. I haven’t seen her since last Tuesday.

In the afternoon the promised commotion materialised. There was a water fight, someone crushed an egg over Robin Quinn’s head, and large gangs of 7th years wandered around school causing ‘trouble.’ It was corny in a way, but things turned savage when Robin beat up Steve and busted his specs. The afternoon culminated in a last dismal and gloomy Art theory revision session which most missed, then home. Goodbye everybody. School over for me for ever. After the exams I’ll never see any of ‘em ever again. . . .

When I got home Dad said that a Mrs. Wilson from Tesco had rung up to ask if I’d like to work three weekday evenings or a Saturday and would I ring back to arrange a “little interview”?

In the Falklands, another ship sunk. At Wembley, England beat Holland 2-0 to a chorus of “Argentina, Argentina, what’s it like to lose the war?”

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