Not any more

I reread my journal entries from over Easter this afternoon. There's something definitely missing from these lifeless jottings at the moment. Perhaps it’s the tranquility I find at home, but here circumstances force themselves upon me, and I’m rarely in my room for any stretch of time.

Another day of summery sun and cloudless empty skies. My window faces northwards and is permanently shaded, so I look out from my gloomy hole at the bright-lit red walls opposite.

Katie was in my room earlier and she seemed interested in my books. “You really love Kerouac,” said she, spying the profusion of his books on my shelves. “Not any more . . . about 18 months ago I was really into him . . .” I like her; she’s interesting and different even though sometimes I find myself inwardly berating her for her foolishness.

A rumour that the police had arrived this afternoon caused a bit of a flap. Most of the illicit fags have been smuggled out of Wollstonecraft Hall: Katie is hiding Barry’s inside a cornflakes packet downstairs in her room; Kamran’s are over in Rousseau; Shelley has taken hers with her to the library where she intends staying all day.

I rang home and Dad told me about yesterday’s match. It was odd talking to him here in this madhouse.