Christmas Is Coming

Colin Weston’s mum has gone into a hospice. Apparently you don’t really come out of hospices. Well you do, but you’re usually in a wooden box and not breathing any more. Poor chap. Well, poor woman too I guess, but I think Colin’s really going to struggle with it. He’s desperately unpopular and now he hasn’t got any parents to turn to in his hours of need. What a dire situation to be in. Puts my family’s woes in the shade.

I still haven’t spoken to Sal. She’ll be in a mood with me by now. I’ll just make out that I’ve been super-busy with the A-level mocks. She’ll understand. She didn’t do A-levels so hopefully she thinks they’re really stressful and occupy your every waking moment. In fact for most people they probably do but I can’t seem to get too worked up about them. Maybe I will nearer the time but I’m far too concerned about popping this incredibly persistent cherry of mine. I’m surprised Dad hasn’t been on the phone to be honest. He’s usually quite good at informing me that I should ring Mother/Sal/Auntie Helen (delete as applicable) but there’s not been a word from the homestead since I received the letter a week ago. I wonder how things are. I expect Mother’s found the whole thing to be another excuse to get blotto. I ought to try and squeeze in an exeat before the end of term but frankly that’s not going to happen. Christ, I’ve just realised we break up next week! How dense of me. A week today we’ll be packing our trunks and heading off. Zoe had better have that party And she’d better have it this side of Christmas. Christmas. Presents. Haven’t bought a thing. But then I’m skint so I can’t buy much. Socks for Dad, candles for Mother, CD for Sal. Job done.