Wishy-washy

We talked both lessons of History instead of doing any work, and none of us had prepared for the test. We listened quietly as Mr. Gray expressed disbelief at how lazy we are yet calm about it, and he urged us to work. At these moments I see my enormous mistakes so clearly, yet I always lose sight of this.

My hair caused some amusement.

Deborah went to a neighbour’s funeral in the afternoon: before she left the usual suspects were callously defending the loss of the Belgrano’s men. I stormed out infuriated and defeated.

I knocked Art with Lee and Duncan and they came to my house for an hour or so. Awful news from the Falklands: HMS Sheffield lost, the crew abandoning ship, a Harrier shot down in a second attack on Goose Green airfield, the pilot dead. All those lives. . . . Dad exploded at my “wishy washy weakness.” Thatcher is “devastated.”