Five Year Diary. I woke ridiculously early, as if it were a school day and not Sunday. Habit, and being sent to be early. The wind had dropped in the night but the fells still looked cold and damp beyond the dormer windows. I decided to come down for a bath before anyone else got the idea. Of course there was no hot water. There never is when you actually want it. I stood there turning the tap as if persuasion might help. It didn’t.
In the Junior Common Room I discovered my Chemistry book had migrated onto another boy’s shelf. Borrowed without asking. I retrieved it, copied out the notes I’d missed and then did the same with my English notes, just in case. It might be a Sunday but what else is there to do?
Band practice followed. I remembered to take a hymn book this time. We played IG’s piece and, if I’m honest, it sounded very good. Tight. Proper. Then we started on some other bits which weren’t quite so polished. Still, it felt industrious, which is what Sundays are meant to feel like here.
I stayed on for Chapel, thus the hymn book. We each had our own.
The place smelt of wet flagstones and polished pews . I sang a harmony because I can – five years a chorister you’d never get me back.
Afterwards I did some Russian. Just a bit. Enough to feel vaguely international. I had to keep my career prospects broad: spy was on my radar, along with actor, RAF pilot, fine artist and chef.
A Sunday Exeat
A friend’s older brother had driven over from Newcastle, which in itself seemed glamorous. We went to Kendal and had lunch at the Wild Boar — proper plates, proper food, not school fare — and for an hour or two we felt almost like ordinary people. Later, back in town, we ate at the Epicure, which felt even more grown up. Restaurants on a Sunday. It was practically continental.
Back to the House early evening. By 7:00pm at a guess. This time there was hot water and I had a bath at last. It felt deserved.
In the evening we watched Columbo in the common room. Everyone trying to guess the twist as if we were detectives ourselves.
I read some of Suedehead before lights out. London felt a long way from here.
Not a bad Sunday, really. Even with the cold bath.
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