I'm sitting nursing a cup of lukewarm Earl Grey, listening to 'Country Feedback' and wondering how honest I'm prepared to be.

Every time I think I'm ready for it, every time I'm on the point of owning up, telling the truth, facing the facts: I back down. Turn away from it, with excuses.

It's after nine and I'm beginning to feel the dread of tomorrow at the back of my neck and in the pit of my stomach. If I regress any further I'll be having a toasted tea cake for supper and laying out my school uniform on the chair. Grey polyester skirt, grey v-necked cardigan, green & grey tie, plain white knee socks. I was once severely and publicly admonished by the Deputy Headmistress for wearing socks with a red and blue band around the top. The injustice of her disproportionate rebuke outraged me, although it was probably the closest to an act of teenage rebellion I ever got. Certainly, that evening spent drinking pilfered Sanatogen and listening to Bob Dylan in a bedroom in Horton in Ribblesdale doesn't even come close: its only consequence being to knock my enjoyment of underage drinking back by years. Until it ceased to be underage drinking in fact. Oh, and I still get an unpleasant taste in my mouth when I hear Bob Dylan, but that's quite usual isn't it?

See? I did it again. More excuses, and my tea's gone cold. But at least it took my mind off Monday, for half an hour or so.