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Mansel
There is a different mood in the afternoon. In part it is a postprandial somnolence. In part the mental fatigue of far too much mental work for a species far more apt for motile than sedentary activity. They would mostly be happier walking than sitting. Heads incline on arms. On long hot summer afternoons the buzzing flies bring drowsiness like dream-dust into the crowded rooms. Minds drift off into daydreams. There is the feeling that escape is now not so far away.
And, finally, after three more lessons, Time rings its final bell of the day and the school day ends. Or nearly ends. There may yet be choir practice in the hall with the ever-enthusiastic Pep. The chess team may be playing at home and entertaining a visiting team with sandwiches of meat paste in white sliced bread. But the great majority head for buses or take the walk down the Gadlys past the “secondary modern” school - there was a terrible dividing of boys at age 11 - into the centre of town, perhaps to visit a cafe where girls from the Girls’ Grammar School are also looking for some real life to happen.