Slow

This morning I finally received word from Moody Street Irregulars and was pleased that the editors condemned the sensationalism and “sexploitive” tone of the standard coverage of Kerouac. Lee called round and we half heartedly tried to do some work but it was just too late, so we memorised a few quotes and left at about half-eleven for school.

Everyone (even Deborah) was infuriated by Duncan’s smug over-confidence as we sat waiting, cheerily pessimistic as usual. At one, feeling nothing at all, I drifted down to the Sports Hall for English Paper II. It was quite difficult: my first two questions, on Austen’s exploration of morality and the significance of Verloc and the Professor in Conrad, were awful; my next two (on Miller and Naipaul) were a little better, and at least read more fluently.

I got a lift to Tesco from Deborah. Time passed so slowly . . . I kept checking on the clock . . . . Another part-timer didn't turn up so I was cardboarding all evening. I felt weary and slow, and Mr. Thomas kept exhorting me to move faster.

More late-night aggro between me and Dad over, stupidly enough, a tin-opener.