Lowewood Academy

I’m writing this in my father’s London house. The whole family has decamped to Town for the last few days of the holidays. Father will take me and Lavinia to Lowewood from here. I thought Katharine would go, but she can’t bear saying good-bye in public - or that’s the excuse, anyway. Father doesn’t have this problem. Particularly since we are not really on speaking terms right now.

The going-away-to-school party last Saturday was a bit like having your brains sucked out through a straw.

Rather than letting a wagon-load of girls into the Tudor Ballroom or the Blue Dining-Room or anywhere with breaking china, Katharine had the staff set up a feast in a drawing room, which was only Victorian. It was like having high tea in Vinnie’s doll-house, weird.

The girls’ parents were also there all the time, which didn’t make the conversation any livelier. In fact, any conversation that did happen, was between the parents, while the kids were tucking into cream cakes. I sat between somebody’s mum and somebody else’s mum; Katharine wouldn’t even put me next to a girl close to my age.

The only other boy was this white-blonde type introduced as William De Lacey. He was the one whose dad my father called an arse, which made me kind of positively disposed towards him. He sat a good way away from me and looked bored. I couldn’t blame him: he got stuck between two twelve-year-olds. He and I amused ourselves by exchanging incredibly bored glances and taking turns yawning, until a waiter leaned to my ear and said: “Master Ned, Lady Ashberry told me to ask you not to make faces.”

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God I’m bored!  Bored bored bored!  So bored, in fact, that I’m almost looking forward to getting back to Lowewood next week!  Now that’s bored!

Okay, so the hols have been good for the most part.  Iceland was cool (well whaddya know?!), then we had another two weeks with mum and dad at a villa on the Algarve – considerably warmer!  But dad disappeared after the first week there, he said he hoped to be back after a couple of days but something urgent had come up with work.  I had a feeling as we waved him off through Departures at Faro Airport that we wouldn’t be seeing him again this holiday, and sure enough he never made it back.  Mum said he was really sorry, and she looked pretty miffed too so we couldn’t really have a go at her about it, could we?  So anyway, we had lots of girly outings for the rest of the week and made the best of it.  The big water park was mega, and I am well brown now!  I’ve spent so much time in the sun, I look like Juanita Rosario, the Brazilian beauty in Byron!  Well at least my skin does - dunno about the rest!

That was all the good stuff.  I love going to different countries, and I love being outside in the sun doing things.  It does my head in just sitting around, and that’s what we’ve been stuck doing for this final week before term starts.  Mum’s leave is up too, so we caught different flights from Faro: she headed back to London and then onto God knows where, whilst Gabby and I flew to Bristol to be met by Auntie Karen.

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What started so well soon disintegrated. But that is always how it has been with girls and me, and I have to say I’ve not been that bothered.

The girl in question was Annie Rose, the vicar’s daughter, who in the opening days of the summer holiday treated me to the longest, wettest kiss I have ever had. Whether it was the kiss or the circumstances surrounding the kiss - the sun, the cider - I dont know. But this I will say: it provided enough wank fodder for a whole night.

Beyond that the kiss proved to be way more hassle than it was worth.

For example, this is what happened the day after this kiss.

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