Unquestionably Usual Chaos

I settle at my computer, my fingers resting on the keys.

"Write a Summer Diary" Mr Margreates says, well, that much I've done. I have.
The problem is - that I don't want him to read it.

My large manuscript accounting my Summer is to the right of my Keyboard, every private thought and every detail of my Summer is recorded within its pages. I don't want to forget a second. I don't want Margreates to read a single second's worth of it either.

I've done as he's said; I've spent hours pouring over this assignment for 6th Form. I don't want to make an excuse pardoning me from handing my work in - especially when I've spent so long on it.
I don't want to appear as one of these teenagers who either makes a half-hearted effort of scrawlings, that, or one who blames it on their dog's culinary habits.

But I really, most certainly cannot let him read it either.

A "Summer Diary" seems like such an easy thing to make up, but I didn't know just how my Summer would pan out. How was I supposed to know just how all of this stuff was going to happen within my six weeks of freedom?