Tuesday 29 August

I would have resigned on the spot, but there is such a thing as Duty, and also I need the money. Last Sunday was awful. I am not speaking to mum, because I know she deliberately forgot to mention that the priest who addressed her women’s group was actually a priestess. And it was mum who asked Antony why he didn’t join the choir when the smarmy screecher brought her umbrella back, the one I had left outside the chip shop. Antony is such a horrible creep. No wonder he was sacked from the cathedral choir.

Also this priestess turns out to be a feminist as well, and she gave this long sermon about Women’s Rights. Two of the flower ladies walked out because they read the Daily Mail and like me do not believe in all this Women’s Rights rubbish, but mum and Mrs Ramsbotham were nodding and smirking all the time, and instead of saying ‘Amen’ at the end they shouted ‘Hooray!’, which was very embarrassing and not at all right in Church. I hadn’t realised that hormones were catching.

I was so upset that I made lots of mistakes, and every time I made a mistake Antony sniggered, which made it worse.

Mind you, he looked a proper plonker sitting in the choir stalls all by himself, and you should have seen the way he processed and recessed, as though he was on wheels. He probably learned that in the cathedral when he should have been learning to sing.

I am labouring on with my Dostoevsky in case Raskolnikov branches out from murdering little old lady pawnbrokers and turns his attention to smug ex-cathedral trebles. I might even pick up a few hints. I am going to start on p8 tonight while mum is out at Women’s Group crowing her head off with all her cronies.