Fifty years ago: Saturday, June 5 1976
(Sedbergh. Age 14)
I woke early with the sun already coming through the dorm windows. Branston (Pickles) had gone shooting (rifle range).
I put away my clean clothes, but got told off by our German Matron for not putting my blue things in the wash. There was always some small rule to miss.
Chemistry: a hydrogen test, and, unusually, I thought I’d done quite well.
French: less encouraging. Passé composé and prep came back 10 out of 20.
English: We read sonnets, though the lesson drifted into nonsense after the teacher Bish Booker wrote such a ridiculous opening line that everyone followed suit.
Technical: an hour on technical drawing, different perspectives, isometric and vanishing point. I executed both to perfection.
Lunch: sausages.
Project Centre: I worked on my wooden cassette rack and a pair of salad servers. Both looked like they’d been assembled in my sleep.
Later, I played squash and beat Jamie 3–0.
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