(Sedbergh, age 14)
Five-Year Diary: The afternoon was spent in the gym with Dixon—doing a mixture of weights and bodyweight work: pull-ups, press-ups, and strength work. He had a problem. He was the youngest in the year above: August birthday to my September, a narrow gap of weeks that should have put us side by side. I had lost six months with a broken leg; otherwise, I would have been in his year. In the house hierarchy, he outranked me. I was expected to “watch my nip”—not answer back.
But I was stronger. And brighter. In the gym, that showed. He wasn’t in my league. Afterwards, there was a shift—more respect, or at least less assumption.
Chapel: I ran back to the house for my prep to give me something to do. I was given one map as a punishment. We were having congregation practice or being forced to listen to the Chapel’s new organ. On a Saturday evening! As if we were born-again Christians.
There was always something slightly off. I often forgot things—today it was my notebook—so I had to run back to the house. It took me off the radar for a while. But the running wasn’t just correction; it was a momentary escape. A legitimate excuse to leave something dull behind, even briefly.
Work followed its usual pattern.
Chemistry: An experiment on salts.
French: the last chapter of Le Petit Nicolas.
English: Chapter 10 of Silas Marner, read rather than taught. Symonds was away—our English teacher, though “teacher” feels generous. His lessons were simply the next chapter read aloud. His absence changed little, except perhaps to remove even the pretence of engagement.
Break.
Then something different: the Project Centre. A wooden pendant made from yew. This mattered. I shaped it into a heart—simple, but the wood itself carried it: rich grain, subtle patterns, something alive in the material. It sat well in the hand. This was a success.
I liked to do. Making something—first thing in the morning, last thing at night, or alone on the fells drawing—these were the moments that felt like mine.
Lunch.
Games: Swimming in the afternoon: individual medley, turns. Once, I was a club swimmer. Boarding school ended that—not enough water time, no real coaching. But in the water, there was still something: escape, a fluidity of movement absent everywhere else. A reminder of something I had been, or might have been.
There was the possibility of watching football. Seven stayed on to watch. I went back to the house.
In the evening, Divinity: the start of a project on John Wesley. Reading, note-taking. Obligation. There was no exam, no purpose I could see. Like Latin, like German—it felt like time wasted. I had no interest in religion, none at all. I was already a belligerent atheist. And I used Tarot Cards, a sin greater than looking at an adult magazine, according to some.
Leave a Reply