Wednesday, May 23, 1984


I was up at seven-thirty and in University for my nine a.m. meeting with the Dean. My intermit-scheme was treated with the expected skepticism and I heard with sinking heart that the Student Planning Committee was “99.9% certain” not to grant me the year out.

I came away having bitterly accepted defeat—I felt sick—and decided not to bother applying to the SPC at all. So that is it—finals next May, all the dread trauma of revision, examinations, the A-levels all over again.

Today’s tutorial on Burroughs reminds me of many things I’ve felt in the past—loose ends tied up, connections made. Realisations I’m too tired to write about at the moment.

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