Friday 7 July

I didn’t sleep very well, tortured by images of my darling Rachel and by indigestion from the baked beans Mum burned for supper. Not even the arrival of my pay cheque (£4.00, as usual) cheered me up. Well, £3 really, because of that wretched television set.

The morning was spent yearning and not attending to my lessons, as a result of which I may never now understand the secrets of the subjunctive or differential equations, and I do wish my teachers would not be so sarcastic. None of them goes to church, of course, which could explain why they behave in so churlish a fashion. I asked Mr Grudge who teaches English why sentences with the subject “none” require a singular verb, even though the sense of the subject phrase is plural, and he could give no satisfactory explanation. I do not know why I waste time with Mr Grudge, for it is well known that he would be only too happy to reintroduce capital punishment for pupils who ask awkward questions.

This afternoon, being sunny, was again declared free by Simon, who evidently, from the garb contained in his bulging holdall and the fact that he has a small canvas vessel attached to the roof of his Renault 4, intends to take Miss Smith on a canoedling trip down the river. I hope Miss Smith is in the sort of romantic mood which forgives all, for our river is not a river at all but a stagnant branch of the Canal, and on a hot day it stinks to high Heaven of rotting fish.

I spent the afternoon treading and retreading my route to school, but Rachel did not appear. And it occurs to me that I do not know where she lives. I do not even know her surname.

Helped Mum watch Coronation Street, then retired to my room to write my diary, after which I will probably read some more James Bond and have an early night.