On the road

I was completely free all day, and so I didn’t go in until after Andrew had left, which he did just before nine. His taxi came, he loaded up and was gone, as if he’d never been. Our goodbyes were casual ones; I'll see him again at Christmas. I’d only just got to know him again too.

At school I pretended to complete my art notes and stayed out of things, ignoring everyone and being ignored, finding communication difficult. Later, in the library, I read Jack Kerouac’s On the Road.

Claire said she had a bike she wanted rid of, so she invited me down to her house to collect it, and after Art Lee and I walked over. She was out and Lee went home for his tea, so I sat and waited uneasily until she came back. The bike's a bit small and rusty but better than nothing, and I gladly took it. She's been very friendly of late. Her new boyfriend must be giving her confidence, or making her happy or something.

Completely and utterly

I really am beginning to dislike school, mainly because of the boredom, but this is my own fault anyway. But I also find my interactions with people there so unimportant! All of these pages, so full of crap, completely and utterly. . . . Total boredom. . . .

Lack

I had a lot of lessons today, mainly English and History, and after school we had our first Art lesson of the term. Nothing much happened worth mentioning; it goes without saying that I felt lacking, with no obvious outside interests. What am I trying to do? Impress people? I must sort out Uni’s soon!

Self . . . imposed

The air of depression around the house is heavy and made worse (or just made?) by Andrew’s moroseness. Mum seems affected by it too.

At school, my anger lingers on, the pettiness and nasty comments seeming to reinforce and justify my self-imposed isolation. Claire was in a good, confident mood: after all, she’s just had a weekend with her new boyfriend! I left at one and walked back home to the depression and to Andrew’s reflective mood. I hate the atmosphere here at the moment. It's so stifling and featureless.

I write too much and too little of it is of value.

Last words

The kitten cried all night and Rob & Carol didn't sleep. We played with it most of the morning, but were still depressed. The kitten is uncoordinated and falls over when he shakes himself and Carol is affectionate with him but still seems halfhearted and unenthusiastic. There are signs of George everywhere; it was as if he might just come padding across the floor, his tail in the air.

We went to a pub in Upper Sike and took Wilmott with us. He whinged all the way, and then Robert and Carol drove me back to Easterby, getting there at seven. It’s funny, but getting back home made me sink back into sadness I felt really upset again, and after they'd left, I again felt like crying. All over a cat! Dad showed me Thomas Hardy’s "Last Words To A Dumb Friend,” which brought hot embarrassed tears spilling down my cheeks.