Monday, 31 August, Labour Day The Loft, 10 p.m.

Another school year. I know I should be excited. I know I should be thrilled at the prospect of seeing my friends again after having been on foreign soil for the past two months.

And I am. I am excited. I’m excited to see Tina and Shameeka and Ling Su and even – I can’t believe I’m saying this – Boris.

It’s just . . . well, it’s going to be so DIFFERENT this year, with no Michael to pick up on the way to school and sit with at lunch and have drop by before Algebra – ACK! No Algebra this year, either! Geometry! Oh, God. Well, I’ll just think about that one later. Although Mr Gianini (FRANK. MUST REMEMBER TO CALL HIM FRANK) says people who do badly in Algebra always do really well in Geometry. Please, please let that be true.

And OK, it’s not like Michael and I ever used to make out in front of my locker or anything – or at all, really, because with his lack of enthusiasm about PDA and my eleven o’clock curfew on weekends (and not being able to even go out AT ALL on school nights thanks to princess lessons with Grandmere – seriously, don’t you think by now she should have told me everything to do with being a princess already? I just know she’s holding out on me), not to mention the fact that considering every time I go I am trailed by a six-foot-four bodyguard (who seems to have been given implicit instructions by my dad never to allow me a minute alone with my boyfriend) how much making out can anyone be expected to do?

But at least – because there was always a chance I could run into Michael in the hallway at any moment – I had something to look forward to at school.

And now, because Michael has graduated, there’s nothing to look forward to. Nothing.

Except for the weekends.

But how much time is Michael even going to have to spend with me on weekends? Because he’s in college now, and he has so much homework already there’s no way we can see each other on weeknights – not t ……