21st July, 1972, 12:13am

20th July, 1972. 

I generally don’t write in diaries. I’m not a dear diary person. Mum got it for me, to express myself. She’s half-thinking she wants to be a psychologist now. I generally don’t write in diaries, as I said but I thought I might this evening. My graduation ball – there’s dancing. I invited the Doctor, a childish part of me hopes he will come. I was…going to buy a blue dress, actually. But, as I expected, I couldn’t find the right shade.

I wanted to write something down this evening because, as childish as it seems I feel as though this might be a…beginning of something. Travelling with the Doctor, perhaps? Seeing the stars, I hope. My mother wants to throw me {or her, more accurately} a party after I graduate. A debutante ball. I don’t know why she’s bothering. I’m wearing one of her dresses though, it’s quite old, and quite beautiful and I’m very grateful that she has leant it to me. I’m not sure what else to say, what do people generally write in diaries? 

Today was good, Gerald looked at me in physics again! 

I’m being a bit harsh, aren’t I? The little things are often the most important, that’s what the Doctor always says. I suppose I should get ready now. I do hope he comes after all, otherwise it shall be endless glasses of champagne and secretive chatter and set-ups with young college men studying engineering. 

21st July, 1972, 12:13am.

Arthur Holmes. Arthur Holmes. Arthur Holmes. Arthur Holmes. Arthur Holmes. Arthur Holmes. Arthur. Arthur. Arthur Holmes. Arthur Holmes. Arthur Holmes. Arthur Holmes. Arthur Holmes. Arthur Holmes. Arthur Holmes. Arthur. Arthur. Arthur Holmes. Arthur Holmes.

Arthur Holmes. Arthur Holmes.

Arthur Holmes.

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