I woke early and tired, though we’d just had a good break. That contradiction feels familiar even now.
I handed in my English prep, aware I hadn’t given it as much time as the previous one.
We were reading Silas Marner, George Elliot and I remember thinking I understood it well enough, though not deeply. That was often the trade-off.
French was questions and mechanisms.
Divinity was the prophets, starting from Abraham. I wrote it down dutifully, but even then I knew the subject wasn’t reaching me. Like Latin, it felt wasted on me. It was taught by a priest, and we were meant to believe as a matter of course. I didn’t. I kept that mostly to myself. Did we read from the New English Bible? I guess so.
At break I had chocolate spread on toast, with instant coffee and biscuits. Very nice. It stands out in the memory more clearly than the lesson on prophets.
Latin was a mixed report: bad prep overall, though good on participles.
Music was Handel. “Against our : master,” I wrote at the time, though I’m not sure what I meant by that now. Perhaps that greatness could exist in a form that didn’t feel modern, or ours.
I had a copy of Rudiments of Music.
Lunch came and went.
I went to Lawrence’s to look for something to wear. They had nothing in my size. That small frustration felt larger than it was. After that I wrote in my diary, the Collin’s Five Year Diary I kept in the top drawer of my cubicle. I always wrote it before lights out. The term before, it had been taken from the junior common room, read aloud, and mocked. Since then I had learned to be careful, to write in a way that revealed and concealed at the same time. Even now, some entries are so cryptic they barely give the day meaning.
In the afternoon I ran the whole way round the golf course and plantation. First time. I remember that clearly. The effort, the cold air, the sense of achievement in not stopping. OY complained about something. I no longer remember what. Perhaps about the pace. Perhaps about having to run at all. It seemed important then. It has dissolved now.
Maths was OK.
Biology was mostly chatter.
History. Reading.
An apple. A bath.
Looking back, I see how much of the day was shaped by prep. We were trained to sit for the allotted hour and work. If a teacher or prefect passed behind you, they expected to see steady concentration. Some subjects pulled me in and I would spiral into tangents, spending far too long on one point. I was learning, slowly, that “good enough” was often better than perfect. Overthinking could lead to muddle.
I also see how often I noted whether I was tired. I should have paid more attention to that. Sleep shaped everything.
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