Wednesday, June 15, 1983

Dead like Sunday

The week sails by indifferently enough and I labour under a real pall of boredom and claustrophobia. Every day feels dull and dead like a Sunday; we sit dumbly around sighing in one another's rooms or occasionally playing football outside, which is one of the few enjoyable group activities left.

The end of term offers no respite. Occasionally I feel optimistic, but occasionally too I’ve been struck with a real sense of depression.

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