Last day of school

The last parents' evening I'll ever go to. In the school's foyer is a box marked "Bullying and suggestion box." "Well, you could post an anonymous note on her desk saying that with tits that ugly she's bound to get breast cancer," I didn't write.

Teachers are arranged at desks in the hall in a serried exam grid formation, sitting in front of leaves of stats. "Nothing to worry about, except that I'll be sad to see them go," said Drama. I went with Jenny to speak to the teacher of her weakest subject, Maths, and was relieved to hear that she's on course for a B. I was attentive to what she was saying to the extent that Ms Thornton's grey shift dress, taut against her thighs under the next table, allowed. Jenny's eyes glazed over at the offer of lunchtime revision sessions to improve her grade. "She just needs a C, never to visit an equation again," we were both thinking.

Me and Melanie took ourselves off to scoff on the buffet. Spring rolls, cheese and tomato sandwiches, that sort of thing. In the any other comments box in the questionnaire afterwards, I wrote "I am very appreciative of everything that the teachers in this school have done for my children." When my girls leave, we must do something for them. It's a proper comprehensive school and the best school in Lancaster. The Girls' Grammar really only has one subject, How To Avoid Associating With the Coarse, the Poor and the Over-Sensual.

Slightly fucked it up with Wendy by pushing the sexting a bit too far at a drunkenly turned-on half past two in the morning. "I do apologise," I wrote in the admonishing light of day. "I will attempt to recover whatever shreds of decorum I once possessed." She's my project.

The plan was that we would be dancing together on Saturday. But instead it'll just be me and Trina, in Lancaster Castle for a short overnight sentence. It had been a prison for hundreds of years until it closed in 2011, and now an enterprising group of yoof run events in it featuring music "wholly or predominantly characterised by the emission of a succession of repetitive beats," to use the definition in the rave-phobic Criminal Justice Act of 1994. It's not cheap (£27) but I bumped into someone who helps run it and he said, with enough detail to convince, that they hardly make any money on it. Derrick Carter was the guest last time round and the builders of Lancaster Castle, can't have anticipated this back in the eleventh century.

Today, Wendy told me that she's not going on Saturday because of a close friend's bereavement. That's a great shame, although a triangle with me, Trina and Wendy would have been a bit of a diplomatic challenge.

Jenny's off to an audition with the National Youth Theatre in a couple of weeks -- an audition just to go on a course with them. While reading a bit of the play from which she's chosen her monologue, I came across this.

I pray you, do not fall in love with me,
For I am falser than vows made in wine:
Besides, I like you not.