SATURDAY JANUARY 25TH

10 a.m. I am ill with all the worry, too weak to write much. Nobody has noticed i haven't eaten any breakfast.

2 p.a. . . . Perhaps when i am famous and my diary is discovered people will understand the torment of being a 13 3/4-year-old undiscovered intellectual. 6 p.m. Pandora! My lost love! Now i will never stroke your treacle hair! (Although my blue felt-tip is still at your disposal.)