Saturday 22 March 1975
‘Continue going over exams and reading. Lunch, mushroom and chicken pies! And seconds pasties. Go down to plays, do make-up, play flute as usual. Supper. Allowed to watch film until nine, about some Arab. Go to bed, talk with the dorm. Lights out 9:20, late, dorm fool on a bit.’
This entry is classic in its brevity, hinting at a routine, structured day with a few small pleasures.
Exam Revision
It was all about the exams. Fifty years after reading about Nabokov’s upbringing, I’m unaware of him sitting an exam. Education suffers when it is held back. What I’ve always liked about the arts and sports is that they are often pursued in a state of continual progression and improvement outside the system that metes out rewards for hard work, enlightenment through achievement, and, in the case of music performance and sports, results.
Lunch & Food Memories
It has taken me 50 years to realise that the food was causing me constant earache. Were these very pasties and pies to blame? Over the years, I’ve found that if I want to treat sinus pain and earache, I eat a cheap pastie—something in the constitution of the pie or the pastry seems to trigger it. Is there some ingredient in the yeast, seasoning, or preservative that sets me off?
The Plays & Music
There is always a significant difference between what you choose and what you’re told to do. In the case of the music for the play, this was an obligation.
The Film About an Arab
Was this The Wind and the Lion?
Dormitory Life
There was a great deal of harmless fun in the dormitory as we got ready for bed before lights out and for a while after.
Lights Out at 9:20
Was there any chance our routine was cherished as it marked change, the end of the term, and the prospect of going home?
You’ve hit on something crucial—how boarding school imposed structure, which, while often rigid and uninspiring, still provided a kind of engagement that home didn’t. Looking back, I can see how that contrast shaped my relationship with time and productivity. Life was regimented at school, but at least something was always happening. At home, there was more freedom and a void—unless I actively filled my time, it felt like slipping into inertia. That pattern has stuck with me. Even now, I seem to function best when my day is mapped out, with a schedule that balances creative work, practical tasks, and physical activity. Otherwise, I risk spinning between wanting to do everything and getting stuck in a loop of indecision.
As for expressing my frustration with the exam review system—I don’t recall ever articulating it directly at the time. There was a kind of silent, resigned acceptance. Complaining wouldn’t have changed anything, and, like most boys, I just got on with it. But I remember moments of quiet rebellion—reading something unrelated under the desk, drifting into daydreams, or making sarcastic remarks under my breath to a friend. It was clear that much of what we were doing was mechanical, testing how well we could regurgitate information rather than think critically. No one seemed to be learning how to learn—just how to pass.
Music was an interesting one. I played the flute, but I never thought of myself as a “musician.” It wasn’t a burning passion, more of a skill I had picked up and kept going with. I don’t remember ever being forced into it. Still, there was a sense of duty—whether performing at the Women’s Institute or accompanying something in a school play. I wasn’t resistant to it, but I wasn’t the person who would have naturally sought out those performances. It was just part of the landscape of school life.
Tri-tactics—yes, it was more than a casual game. It had strategy, but perhaps more importantly, it had status. Knowing the game well, understanding the best moves, and winning against your peers gave you a sense of authority, even if only within the micro-world of the dormitory. It was a small way of asserting intelligence and dominance, and I suspect that’s why it became a craze. These boarding school environments often had their peculiar social hierarchies, and things like Tri-tactics, subversive humour, or niche knowledge (like reciting Monty Python sketches) were ways of carving out a place.
The Alice Through the Looking Glass performance must have had a surreal quality, especially with a goat as the shopkeeper. That kind of bizarre image sticks with you even when other details fade. I don’t remember specific lines, but I do recall a general sense of the play being dreamlike and absurd—which, now that I think about it, probably mirrored boarding school life in a way.
The late-night duties made me feel like part of the machinery rather than an individual. There was a strange satisfaction in being trusted with specific tasks, but at the same time, it reinforced that we were just small cogs in a much larger, impersonal system. That feeling has probably shaped my attitudes toward institutions, authority, and the importance of carving out one’s own space within (or outside) rigid structures.
It’s fascinating to examine all of this, as I wouldn’t have consciously made some of these connections without revisiting the diary. It makes me wonder: How much of what we think of as “our nature” is the aftershock of these early experiences?
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