Tuesday, 26th October 1976
(Winder House, Sedbergh School. Age 15)
Lessons dragged.
German, then French. I was rubbish at languages and just treading water with German until I could drop it. Then break, Maths, then English.
We had seven 45-minute periods, three before break, two afterwards, then lunch and games, followed by a further two periods in the late afternoon.
After lunch, I went into town.
I took out £11.10 from the bank. It was accumulated birthday money, and a lot to take out.
I bought 20 Embassy Regal for 39p, a Club International for 50p, and a present for my younger sister.
The cigarettes were for me to smoke and to give to others. Buying Club International always felt awkward. I felt I was taking a risk just walking around with it in my bag.
It was my sister’s thirteenth birthday coming up so I bought something I could send. Perhaps a card with a pony on it, a voucher for a book or record, which sounded like something a granny would do, a soft toy or a book. I got it wrapped and sent off at the Lost Office. Whatever it was, I spent another 50p and 9p on the stamps.
I watched the House rugby; I wasn’t playing as I’d been concussed after a kick to the head the day before.
How seriously was concussion taken? Not very. You were cheered if you kept playing after an injury; otherwise, your team was a man down.
The rugby competition was a knockout between Houses.
Mike McAdam broke his wrist. He went off. Sometimes, players were bandaged up and returned to play in the second half. Rugger wounds were considered to be war wounds — you fought on.
We lost to Hart House.
Then I caught the other matches, watching the remaining games in the knockout competition.
At the Grubber afterwards, the school snack bar where we could buy sweets, crisps and other things to eat, I lent £1 to Blackford.
Blackford was a junior boy from Winder House and a day boy. Surely, as a day boy, he could have got cash from home every day.
I went swimming.
I didn’t train until Chris Allsop turned up. Chris was another competitive swimmer at Sedbergh, and his arrival provided the motivation I needed to get on with it. Perhaps Mr Stuart, our swimming coach, wasn’t there.
We did hard sprints.
A training session would have been around 2,500 metres over the hour, with a warm-up and cool-down at either end. There might have been twelve 100-metre repetitions on two minutes, sixteen 50s on one minute, or eight 25s on 45 seconds, with some skills work on starts and turns before the cool-down.
It was hard work, but I was there to swim.
I was late for supper.
There would be raised eyebrows and a ticking-off from the Head of House for missing grace. Worse, there was the risk that all the meat or fish would have gone, leaving me with a plate of vegetables.
Later, I got out my Club International.
As well as the young woman in various stages of undress showing far more than I’d ever seen in the flesh there were articles such as “The Roots of Sex” by D.M. Thomas, “Anatomy of an Orgy” by Michael Walsh, Quentin Crisp on style in “Putting on the…” I liked a good article and the letters pages. I made up a few letters myself as if I had stories to tell. I sent them in. Nothing was ever published or even acknowledged
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