Entry 4
6/1 13:30
Hello myself. I am sitting on a wall. Well, not quite on a wall... on a path next to a wall. Better explain- to myself? what I mean. Eastgate High is based around an old Norman fortress, with a great stone wall around to defend it from any Saxons who were not too keen on their new ruler. It has, or rather had, a sort of stone walk way around it, so that intruders could be seen over the top of the wall. Most of it's run down now, and people rarely visit what's left, especially in dreary weather like this. I come up here most days. It gives me somewhere to think, away from all the noise that everybody else makes. So, I am sitting here now, writing a pointless journal to myself, and eating a raisin and cinnamon bagel that I have not long since bought from the dining hall. I'm not so sure that I like cooked raisins though. The skin breaks under the heat, and the inside turns to mush. I'm eating it anyway, as I suppose it's the last thing I'll have to eat until dinner at seven. Not only is this place away from people, but it gives me a good view of the city. I can sit up hear and watch all of the tiny insignificant people rushing around and worrying about their tiny insignificant lives. I had art this morning, then maths, history and Chemistry. Not too bad a morning really. You should see Thursday. Drama, double English and then another hour of art. Given that each subject lasts an hour, double English is not much fun. Silly expression that. Not much fun. I don't think anything is 'much fun' to be honest. Art is a complete waste of time. Our teacher, Mr. Quigley is completely out of his mind. He has a 'Tibetan gong' that he hits with a size 20 paintbrush when he wants to get our attention. His classroom is a mess, as he forgets to make anybody tidy up. Ben spilt a whole tin of paint down his blazer a few weeks ago, and instead of giving him detention, Mr. Quigley hung up his blazer on the wall and gave him an A* for the most creative piece of artwork. It means we don't have to do much though. As long as you can explain how you have constructed and cried over the layout and fine tuning of your work, and write a page or two about all the depths of emotion that you forced into it with your skilled hand, you'll get a good mark. Even if it's just a splodge of paint. That drives me up the wall. I hate doing nothing, and making up complete lies. I swear that I'll write no more than a line next time, and see what he makes of it. "Sherlock my boy, this is an exemplary piece of artwork! The sheer simplicity... is beyond expression! Marvellous! Miraculous! Magnificent! I will give you a bang on my beautiful Tibetan gong as a reward!" Erh. I can almost hear him saying that.
There's a blue ford galaxy car coming up the drive way. It's probably Miss. Rushworth. She went on holiday to Majorca for a few weeks, and she has that type of car. And yes, that's her number plate; T56 's look like her style of driving too. If she's not careful, she's going to go-
Too late.
Into that thorn bush. I'm surprised she didn't get stuck. I'm not sure from up here, but I think there's someone else sitting in the back of the car. A child I think. Maybe a relative of her's, or a new boy starting at the school. It won't be a child of her's... she's not married and has never been pregnant as far as I know. And there was nothing on the registers about a new pupil... besides, it looks like a girl. A relative... she doesn't have any that I know of. Maybe an adopted child? A friend's child? Writing things down slows my brain. I should have worked this out by now. I have to find out who this new person is, or I will have nothing else to do with my life, and die of stupidity. Or perhaps I'll live, and end up hanging upside down for the rest of my life, trying to let nothingness drain out of my ears. And the bell will ring in...5,4,3,2,1
And yes it rung. I am not going to form. I am going to find this person. I am not going to write a good bye note as I am writing to myself and I am not going away from myself. I am writing to myself, not a diary. MYSELF.
Got that Sherlock?