Perhaps I should attempt an analysis of the kind of person I think that I am. It is an opinion which is becoming rather less favourable as time progresses, and I don't blame people for taking a dislike to me. But I think there are four different facets to me, of which only two are troublesome.

One of these is the sociable Me - the one that emerges at all these dances and dinners that I am attending. It is also the one that gets ridiculed in the gossip columns, and I sometimes feel that he deserves it - from all that excess exhibitionism, and sometimes inconsiderate behaviour.

Then there is also the spoilt-little-boy in me, lurking just below the surface, and ready to flare up in anger just as soon as things begin to go wrong - furious with the world for not recognizing what he will be like when he grows up. It is this Me which creates most of the trouble in my love life. And I sometimes fear that he will never mature out of these ways.

There is a third Me whom I don't really like, but whom I believe to be both efficient and necessary to the full identity. This is the effervescent Me - suddenly bursting out with bottled up energy, self-confident to an excess in the belief that no obstacles in life are insurmountable.

Then finally there is the likeable Me. He is quiet and reflective, but also subject to depression. At times he is listless and dreamy, and perhaps drained of energy. But he is concerned to be pleasant to others, and to empathize with their individual plight.

It is through a combination of these last two facets of Me that I believe that I shall finally win through in life. But I shall only succeed in liking myself if I manage to subdue the sociable Me and the spoilt-little-boy Me. And in that they are as yet far from being subdued, I am saddled with the problem of a mounting self-hatred.

On Friday evening there was a party given by Tim Sainsbury, and once again I felt dejected, spending most of the time sitting in an armchair. It must have got round to everyone that I was feeling in a depressed mood, since lots of people were coming to try and cheer me up. In point of fact they succeeded. But it makes me feel guilty that they succeeded, for it might indicate that my gloom was just for show - an invitation to others to pay me appropriate attention. And if I'd set my mind to it, I guess that I could have dislodged myself from that stance quite simply of my own accord. I mean that it was nothing as deep-seated as I was imagining it to be.

It could be that this is all part of the character of depressions. Once they arise, I take a morbid delight in them - although not because I am enjoying the sympathy they evoke. I think I'm being truthful in saying that I neither want it, nor expect it. But it may be a case of cushioning my sorrow in self-pity - which could well be dangerous. Yet there's a certain tranquillity of mind within that estate. And it's to protect that newly established tranquillity that I resist any attempt from others to draw me out, or to engulf me in the party spirit.

I enjoyed the play, but I kept wondering whether the debutante had been fashioned upon [Y] - because William Douglas-Home does know her. And it was all about a young deb (called [Y] incidentally!) who doesn't like any of the young men - which was the way [Y] was behaving a couple of years ago. Not really likely I suppose, but it's just possible. And if that were so, then the rakish character with whom the deb eventually falls in love might be intended to be myself! And `Sheila Barrington' could have been a reference to [X] - although I hope not! The whole thing would have been a far stretch from the reality - with myself depicted too old. (Back from Malaya, etc.)

I went to dinner with [P] for the Ansley dance.

I did not have such a lot to drink but for some reason or other, I began to behave drunkenly. Thinking back on it all, I can't help squirming with embarrassment. I just can't think why I permitted myself to behave so stupidly.

It began after dinner when we went to find a taxi. I climbed into one with two comparative strangers - Jeremy Sandford and Emma Soames. I paid no attention to them whatsoever, but just gazed out of the window. And occasionally as we passed a girl, I gave a wolf-whistle. It might have been permissible if it had been done with some comment to the others, in the spirit of a game or something. But it was a piece of behaviour all on my own.

I simply hadn't drunk enough to excuse myself on those grounds, although once we had arrived at the party, it's possible that the alcohol might be counted as a contributory cause. Even so, it hardly excuses me for swaying around on a chair with Nicola Cayzer, exhorting her to wiggle her hips in imitation of some nightclub stripper.

In retrospect I am almost able to feel these acts were laughable - in contrast to the terrible angst which afflicted me the following morning. But I'm still not entirely happy about my performance. I find myself sympathizing with those people who go round saying that I am mad, for I am bound to conclude that I must be a little unbalanced. I can only offer the cliche retort: "I don't know why I did it - I just did it."

The only other curious trait in my behaviour that evening is that I appeared physically incapable of remembering to take my suitcase with me. I left it first at the Battine flat, and then at the Ashetons' dance - where I went on to later. But I finally managed to recover it, and John L-T gave me a lift back to Oxford.

I received a telephone call from Ian while I was still up in London, suggesting that I join him and Caroline P on a visit to some Indian palmist, whom he currently supposes to have all the solutions to life on offer. I find his faith in the man to be quite alarming, for he has this tendency to jump headlong into any creed which has attracted his attention. An idea is then liable to take over his personality, but I may hope that this particular one is just a passing phase.

Ian's palm had already been read on some previous occasion, and he'd been so impressed by what had been told to him that he was wanting to hear what the man might have to say about his friends. But we were turning up without an appointment, which might not have mattered in that there was no one else waiting for his services in the anteroom. On the other hand he had perhaps observed me detecting his spy-hole in the wall, and then restraining myself from making any comment to the others about it - which may well have given him the suspicion that I was here to examine his practice within some manner of official report. Anyway he appeared to be treating me with the utmost distrust, once we had all been ushered into his study.

There was additional evidence about the spy-hole incidentally, in that there was a large square of black cloth, hanging on the wall (as if it were a flag) just behind Mir Bashir's desk. I could think of no reason for it to be there, apart from its capacity to conceal such a hole, and to prevent light infiltrating from the study to the anteroom whenever he chose to unplug the hole for observation purposes. And of course he could see that I had observed this too. So he wanted to get rid of me just as quickly as he could.

His line was to say that he was dreadfully tired, and could only give one of us an interview - which would be Caroline of course. Ian enquired if we could remain to hear what he might have to say about her, but he said no. Ian was then atrociously rude (and quite typical) in saying to Mir Bashir's secretary that he wasn't sure if it was safe that we had left the young lady with him, while we ourselves were obliged to wait next door. I'm never quite sure if Ian realized how offensive he is being - and racist too in its implication. And the secretary did look disgruntled. God knows what Mir Bashir had to say when he was informed of the remark!

From the anteroom we could hear Mir Bashir pumping Caroline hard for details about her life, before offering her any predictions in exchange. It strikes me that his secret talent lies in being an astute intuitional judge of character, basing his palm-reading upon both that, and the biographical facts which he has gleaned. It rather sounded as if Caroline was being far too free with the information about herself which she furnished. But despite the fact that she must be aware how much she herself divulged to him, she came out saying that she had been greatly impressed by him. And Caroline is an intelligent girl too!

Richard L got absolutely plastered, while Hastings was just being his normal loud-mouthed self. I was feeling ill-disposed towards him due to his behaviour in stabbing my painting and breaking my umbrella. But I am also fed up with him for the way that he has thrown his weight around in every election that I have attended - whether it be for the Bullingdon, or Loder's. Therefore I now find myself on the look out to resist him.

When the time came for counting the votes in secret, he again began to push his own preferences as to whom should have been elected. So I responded by pushing mine. The situation was as follows. The problem as we saw it was that Nicky Gage had three white balls and two black balls, whilst Charles had seven white balls and three black balls. Charles was the one Hastings wanted to see elected, and he promptly invented a rule about white balls rather than black balls being the initial thing to count. But at previous elections it has been the black balls that are the most significant - with white balls only coming into consideration if there has been a tie. And since my own preference was for Nicky, I insisted that he didn't change the rules. But this led to some argument, and finally to wrestling at one moment - not that he persevered in that line, as I'm clearly stronger than him. But in any case they were both less sober than myself, so I was in a better position to carry my wishes against the two of them.

The really embarrassing point is that when the meeting had ended, a whole lot of us went round to Nicky's room to congratulate him on his election, but he said that he would have to think about it. And his decision was finally that he should decline election - something which he imparted to me in private later. After all the hassle in getting him elected, this served me right! And I had the secret thought inside me that, if I had been really true to myself a year ago, then it's the action which I myself should have taken - to preserve my independence from any too limited clique grouping. So the only first year undergraduate now in our ranks is Sebastian York, who will replace Nicky as the one anticipated to be the President of the Bullingdon the year after I depart.

This rejection of membership was doubly embarrassing in the light of what was subsequently disclosed, for it was revealed that we must have miscounted the blackballs for Nicky Gage - which should have been counted as four, instead of just two. But this only came to light after the meeting had ended, when four different individuals proclaimed they had blackballed Nicky. What happened to the missing blackballs remains a bit of a mystery. My most probable theory is that Hastings himself pocketed them before coming to realize that his friend Charles wouldn't get in without such a negative count for Nicky. But I have sensed since then that he has been damning my name to others as the person responsible for the miscount. There is a new coolness that I've been sensing from the likes of Richard L and James S - even a sharp comment or two. I may have to watch my step.

There was a period during the middle of this week when I thought matters might be coming to a head, in the bad feeling between myself and Hastings. He makes small niggling comments, designed to goad me. But they were never sufficiently nasty to make it necessary for me to retaliate, either verbally or physically. But I was hoping that this might happen. I was hoping that he'd be unpleasant enough to justify me swinging a punch at him. In fact I'm itching for a fight with him - if the circumstances are right. For I'm confident that I could win quite easily.

Friends at the Grid seem to be aware how there is what amounts to a power struggle afoot - with some thought in mind that someone other than myself should be appointed President of the Bullingdon next term. Nor do I feel that Hastings has won over all the support which he desires. Various people (including Jimmy S and Adrian S) have made remarks to me which I interpret as indicating that they recognize that Hastings is being unnecessarily offensive of late - not to speak of the friends (like Laurence K, John L-T and Tim S) whom I can count on to offer me their support. I think Hastings understands that he has not got the situation completely in hand. He is therefore replacing the unpleasantness with an attitude of hostile acceptance. I think he senses that he has overdone the anti-Weymouth propaganda, to the extent that he has set me up as the banner-bearer for all anti-Hastings sentiment.

My suspicion that there could have been a move afoot to appoint someone else as President, has been almost confirmed by the fact that I have received a visit from Jeremy Glyn (of the group from Worcester College who are in the Bullingdon) to enquire - after a chat about diverse matters - if I felt I'd be able to handle all the organizational problems that might be involved in such an office. I made light of the matter, assuring him that I could handle such duties with ease.

I had been jiving a bit carelessly with Caroline L-T at one point, when someone that I didn't recognize came up and told me that I'd better watch my step, as one of these days I'd bump into someone who might take offence. He then revealed his identity as being Tim Delacre, whom I had known as a teenager, when we were holidaying down in Cornwall and staying in the same hotel at Mulleon Cove. My own feeling now was that he'd been unnecessarily offensive in warning me thus. (We may have bumped into him, but not hard enough to warrant such a rebuke.) So I said something about remembering him, and how it was a pity that he wasn't as pleasant as he used to be. There were a few additional retorts on either side, with Tim indicating that I might soon be asked to step outside - whereupon Caroline blurted out that he'd better watch his step, since he was addressing a boxing champion.

Now this was pitching the ball too high, so I had to start restraining Caroline. And Tim seemed eager to point out that he too was a boxing champion of some sort. Anyway we managed to scale down the aggression on either side, and Tim offered me a cigarette, which I accepted. We then had a (reasonably) friendly conversation about old times.

Owing to the rail strike, I had been given a lift up to London by Tim R. And on Wednesday he gave me a lift back to Oxford again.

During these journeys I came to the conclusion that I rather liked him. It's not that he behaves in the manner that I myself would ever want to behave, but I have to admire the way in which he appears to feel at ease in life - exercising an authority over others which I personally wouldn't suppose that I have the right to display. I'll cite the example of the way he opened the window of his car to shout abuse at some man who had offended him by hooting, as he came out from a side street. I might have glared at the man myself, but I'd never have balled his head off - an action to which there was no reply incidentally.

But on Wednesday evening Tim S invited Tim R and myself as guests to the Wine and Food Society's dinner. I was sitting quite near to Tim R, and he began putting on all his former affectations. Some of his remarks were quite asinine, and in the end I told him so. This annoyed him, since it ruffled his sense of dignity. So he then became objectionable, offering patronising comments upon my own behaviour.

As usual, I found myself aggravated by Tim R over the course of the dinner by his blasé manner. I was talking about sex to Teddy when Tim butted in to say that I was merely trying to impress people, without having the experience. What he's getting at I suspect, is that it may be common knowledge by now, how [X] was still a virgin when she broke with me. But he was certainly goading me in making such a point. I daresay Tim would like to take the line that this invalidates anything that I might wish to say about sex, when (like everyone else) I feel entitled to express all manner of opinions on the subject. And I don't see why Tim can't join in with the sense of merriment about our hopes and aspirations in such matters, without turning it into an inquisition on the right for me to have my personal theories on how the psychology operates.

I felt exasperated with him, and this led to an exchange of words. Then after dinner we got into a bout of semi-friendly wrestling, and I was delighted to discover that I was far the stronger. I threw him to the floor once, with a resounding thud. And he thought better of reopening the engagement. After prowling round each other like a couple of gorillas for a little while, he packed it in.

The evening developed into a bottle-throwing battle between all and sundry. Karl Leyzer was very drunk, attacking people with chair-legs. Eventually he collapsed upon a broken bottle, and was carried away to have nine stitches put into his leg. The rest of us brought in a roller that was in the garden outside, and trundled round the barn with it. Unfortunately in doing so, we ground all the pieces of broken glass into the floor which had been carefully polished in preparation for Teddy's dance. This upset him greatly when he came to inspect all the damage next morning.

On Tuesday John L-T held his Ushers' Dinner at Chez Peter. This was enormous fun - especially as Tim failed to turn up for it. And as a result, we were all able to discuss sexual subjects without it degenerating into a schoolboys' wrangle. We were all quite tight by the end of the meal. But the more I drank, the more argumentative I became. And this time I found myself picking upon Laurence. He came up with one of his pseudo-intellectual remarks, and I gave him stick for being such an intellectual snob.

I was still giving him stick during the drive home. Laurence was getting quite rattled, bleating his protests in the hopes of evoking an answering bleat from others. But within that car, there was only one other (John), who behaved quite admirably - diplomatically declining to join in the argument in any way at all. Or perhaps he was just dreaming about his coming wedding night!

I had an unpleasant exchange with Mrs [E] who runs the place with her husband. She has never liked me, but she probably detests me now. The situation was this.

I have noted how she addressed others with a title as Lord This or That, but in my case it was always "Mr Weymouth". Well that didn't bother me greatly. But on this occasion she was addressing me when I genuinely hadn't heard her - until she persisted: "I'm talking to you Mr Weymouth.... Mr Weymouth.... Mr Weymouth, I'm talking to you!" So I turned to her starry-eyed and enquired if she was talking to me. She retorted that she had called me by name three times without me paying any attention to her. I said she had not. So she reiterated that she had called out "Mr Weymouth three times." But when I declared that my name wasn't Mr Weymouth, but Lord Weymouth, I could see that she was bubbling over with fury, and couldn't even keep the chips on her serving knife.

In fact when she next addressed me, it was still as Mr Weymouth. So I retaliated by calling her "Miss [E]" in my reply. So it now looks as if we're on non-speaking terms. I think what really infuriates her is that she may think that I am laying claims to a title which isn't officially recognized - like [H] when he requires people to address him as Prince [H]!

My quarrel with Mrs [E] seems to be resolved. She espied that piece about myself and Frances Sweeney in the Women's Sunday Mirror, where I was clearly identified as Lord Weymouth. (In fact it was Mrs E who first showed it to me.) It would seem that it has impressed her, and she has been addressing me correctly ever since!

On Wednesday evening David Brooke dropped in for a drink. I do find that he is becoming overbearingly conceited, with an ego that is even stronger than mine! I dread to think what manner of marital partner he will make - when the time comes. He is far too concerned to express his criticism, or adverse opinion, upon any subject that I might choose to mention. He needs taking down a peg or two.

The dinner was laid on in sumptuous style. But David is becoming far too full of himself - too conceited. He regards himself as the smart young thing of the aristocracy, and is constructing his whole life around this myth.

On Saturday morning I received a particularly unpleasant letter. It related to my cashing of a cheque for some piddling amount - less than £10 in any case - that I was owed by the Royal Wiltshire Yeomanry. But it would seem that I have cashed it twice over. When the original cheque was sent to me, I mislaid it and forgot about it. But about a fortnight ago, Johnny wrote to complain - to which I replied explaining my carelessness. He then sent me a duplicate cheque, which I cashed. But a few days ago I suddenly came across the old cheque in my wallet, and without giving the matter any thought at all as to what this one might represent, I sent this one as well to my bank. And it never occurred to me for an instant that I was doing something wrong.

The next thing I knew was that the cheque had been returned to me as being out of date. I then realized my mistake, but since it had been returned, I supposed no harm had been done - not supposing that they'd have the opportunity to know that I'd tried to cash it. But I was mistaken, for on Saturday I received a letter from Johnny which began: "I take a very dim view...." And it went on to accuse me of attempted fraud, saying amongst other things that he didn't like to think what the Colonel would have to say if the matter got to his ears - although Johnny was gracious enough to say he would let the matter rest without taking it any further.

Well I was absolutely dumbfounded! I sat straight down to write him my answer - apologizing for my carelessness, but assuring him that it was nothing more than that. Then I ended up by saying: "I could have felt happier if I'd been able to feel that my mistake was one of carelessness rather than dishonesty. If you really feel that I have attempted to be dishonest, then I feel it is your duty to put the facts before the Colonel." I shall be interested to see how he reacts to this, although my personal feeling is that I am owed an apology.

Then having posted the letter, I went off to Eton with John and Caroline for the 4th of June celebrations, and (lo and behold!) one of the first people that I ran into was Colonel Timmy. So I had to make a quick decision on whether I was going to say anything about the cheque. And I decided that I would. So I went up and told him quite briefly about what had happened, asking him to explain to Johnny that these things can happen from carelessness rather than from anything more sinister. And Colonel Timmy did seem to appreciate that the amount involved was ludicrously small for someone of my wealth to embezzle. So he was treating the matter light-heartedly, although promising to have a word with Johnny on the subject.

I'm afraid that Dad is still very much hoping that I'll take what he describes as a serious job. But I regard that, by now, as being totally out of the question. And it's his own fault in a way. I think that, when I first came up to Oxford, I might have been prepared to try for the Foreign Office. But he gave me no encouragement whatsoever - merely telling me that I wasn't sufficiently intelligent. Naturally this might have served as a stimulus for me to prove him wrong. But he chose to be dismissive about my talents in virtually every field - or the ones that are important to me. And it is this which has fuelled my determination to succeed as an artist and as a writer. I am as certain as a man possibly can be that I'll eventually make good in these two fields - provided of course that I live for long enough.

I am certainly not dismissing the possibility that I might die prematurely. And that is indeed a painful thought for me. For I would be dying in the knowledge that Dad would still be there, telling everyone how I had been doomed to failure from the very start, owing to my inflated delusions of grandeur. He would remain convinced that I'd have been a failure no matter how long I lived. And it's this misjudgement that goads me on. I am desperately concerned to open his eyes to the belittlement in his judgement, and to bring him to concede that he underestimated my worth.

Perhaps I should lay out a plan concerning what I see for myself over the coming years. Depending upon the degree I take, I might decide to stay on at university for a while, (not necessarily Oxford,) broadening my general philosophical attitude while delving into the subjects of psychology and sociology perhaps. Or I might seek a firmer grounding within the subject of English literature. It wouldn't really matter what degrees I obtain, although it would certainly gratify my vanity to do well. So I might hope that I shall end up with a D.Phil. in my chosen subject.

Then I might put myself into exile abroad for a while (possibly back in Paris) where I might continue with my art studies. But I should also be starting to write seriously, in an attempt to put over to a wider public this attitude which I am gradually seeking to define for myself. I might remain in Paris for quite a number of years, only returning to London after obtaining the necessary degree of recognition that I require. And I should stress that, whether I am using paint or the written word, it is a whole philosophy of life that I am seeking to present.

In the process of doing this, I do anticipate that I'll arouse people's opposition - even resentment. I may even find myself getting ostracized from polite society. But I'm hoping that I'll be strong enough by then, to take all this in my stride. I must just rise above it.

Only when I have made a name for myself which doesn't depend upon my aristocratic lineage, will I feel comfortable about returning to Longleat, to dwell. And my task then will be to set myself up so that I am actually practising what I preach - to live so that my ideas (whether about morality, politics or religion) find exemplification in my lifestyle. And I must seek to influence others who dwell in my particular region of the globe to perceive that this lifestyle can really work, so that they adopt it for themselves.

Beyond this point it might be unwise for me to speculate. But I suppose it would be a natural evolution if I were then to seek to spread my ideas even further afield, by whatever means might then occur to me - which opens up the possibility of seeking an additional career in politics. It may well turn out however, that I find that creative work and politics cannot readily be mingled. So I'll cease my speculations at this point.

But to phrase it in more general terms, I have three goals. The first is that I am trying to discover a more direct, and more genuine relationship between the individual and this universe in which he finds himself. I want to see if the truth doesn't finally emerge if we can learn to perceive this relationship for what it really is, when rid of its hypocritical trimmings and false prejudices - with candour and sympathy emerging as the values which sustain us in our quest for the truth. Then secondly, I'd like to establish the lines upon which our human society might develop towards political unity. And thirdly, I'm hoping to leave an indelible mark within the sphere of creative art. I realize that I am setting myself quite a full programme. But with most of my life still ahead of me, the goals do not strike me as unobtainable.

For the past week I have been working almost solidly upon my new thesis, `The Nature of the Universe', and I feel most encouraged by the way that it's progressing. What I am essentially doing is to perceive a way of conceiving this universe as being circuited in both time and space, so that the concept of infinity gets eliminated. I regard that as the initial step towards any perception of how the individual belongs as part and parcel of the universe. Well I think I've made a good shot at getting these matters sorted out in my mind. But what I need now is some reaction to it.

On Saturday I did at last persuade Dad to listen to my thesis - along with Felicity Cory-Wright and John Strachey. John kept on staggering out of the drawing room to be sick (as I supposed), which was somewhat off-putting. But Felicity furnished an encouraging and interested audience. Dad said it was all too "high-flung", and therefore incomprehensible. What is more he obviously suspected that I'd just taken the ideas from someone else, so that the entire work should be regarded as second-hand. Apart from that, he was prepared to say he liked it. Yet I do wish that he could sometimes allow that I'm capable of working out ideas for myself, and am not the complete dim-wit that he likes to think I am.

On Wednesday I had to read my paper to the Canning Club - with Robin Farquarson (invited by Reggie B) to answer it. I thought I'd best stoke up my courage a little by getting tight at a cocktail party, earlier on in the evening. But this proved to be a dire mistake. By the time I sat down to read my paper, I found that I could no longer pronounce some of the longer words. And as the paper was full of them, this put me in a right fix! I found that I was observing my efforts as if I were an independent witness - to an extent where they seemed funny, so that I kept breaking out in giggles which I couldn't control. And at times when I appreciated what I was doing, I felt most embarrassed. And my audience was squirming uneasily too. I was most thankful when I finally reached the end.

I got the impression that no one had been following my line of thought, or when they were, it was with boredom. But Robin Farquarson was kindly in his reply, calling it coherent and original. But he urged the audience not to take what I had been proclaiming too literally, for it was more in keeping with something written by Blake than by Einstein. And he urged me not to suppose that this was the one and only interpretation of what the universe might be. Moreover he reserved the privilege to disagree with different aspects of what he declared to be an able paper. So I really felt quite happy with what must in reality have been a dismal performance.

On Tuesday I motored up to London with my three paintings to enter for the Daily Express Young Artists' competition, which is open to anyone under 30. All the judges are notable artists or art critics - Sutherland, Read, Blunt and le Roux - so it would be wonderful if I manage to get one of them accepted. And I know how it would make Dad sit up and pay attention to my work as a painter. There'd be no more talk about dabbling dilettantes!

I felt pleasantly at home in the bohemian atmosphere of the collecting centre. Although I may have been different to them in my appearance - less arty in effect - I felt there was a kindred spirit between us. Nor were these long-haired art students looking disparagingly at my paintings. We were examining what we'd brought to submit in a spirit of mutual interest. And I found this encouraging.

I should have mentioned that I received a letter inviting me to send up some of my pictures for an exhibition entitled "Painting is a Pleasure". But I feel it would have been an error for me to associate myself with a platform which is so overtly amateur. It would merely create the thought in other artists' minds that I had no ambition to join their ranks on a professional basis. And that would be bad for me.

If I do get my paintings accepted for this other exhibition, it will come as a bombshell of a surprise to Dad. But I've been careful not to breathe a word to him about it. I don't want any of his taunts if they should be rejected.

I was not impressed. It seems to me that he is presupposing a belief in the divinity of Christ, and that his words have no persuasive inducement for someone who might regard himself as an atheist - or even for someone who identifies the Universe as God. Nor am I impressed by the statistics which reveal that his conversions are apt to be just temporary. Many of the people who go up to proclaim their conversion are just being swept along by the emotional appeal of the moment. And to be quite frank I was insensitive to that emotion - perhaps because I was physically so cold! I found myself regarding the proceedings more like a freak show, than as a religious meeting where I was a participant.

Billy Graham is just an evangelist like many another that I've heard tell are all the rage in the U.S. bible belt. I might have been more interested (or more curious) if he'd really let himself go, giving us a demonstration of how they rant and rave when preaching. But if this was the expectation, I found him far too restrained - tailoring his performance perhaps to suit what he might regard as a more sophisticated audience. But I can't feel that he's going to do much good for our religious attitude over here in Britain - because quite frankly, I was bored.

On Tuesday I received a letter from Steve Arkwright, all eager to hear if Billy Graham has managed to convert me. I can tell that he has no intention of giving up on me, and I feel that my safest defence is to present myself to him as an atheist. Any talk about identifying God with the Universe just encourages him to persist.

He wrote that what worried him was my lack of preference for Christianity over any other religion. And he put forward his arguments in favour of Christianity - the main one being that, since it was responsible for most of what I might regard as good in life, then I should stand up in support of it. But there are many answers to this. I don't want to feel so divisively about the world as to attribute particular blessings to Christianity, rather than to Buddhism - or whatever. (Nor all the evils for that matter.) I want to think of the world as gradually coming together to discover the common ground for variant religious attitudes - not in terms of the conquest, or conversion, of one religion by another. We've got to find a basis where all religious attitudes can peacefully coexist under the same umbrella of a universal religion.

In my reply to him, I promised to come round and discuss the matter further with him, but I felt it safest to proclaim myself an atheist. I said there wasn't much point in trying to persuade me about the best ways in which God might be served, unless he could first persuade me that there is such a person, existing somehow outside the Universe, to whom such service might be due.

So it looks as if I have some further hours of pointless discussion ahead of me, when I go round to see him. The truth of the matter is that his whole sense of argumentation is weak. What I'm hoping is that (without actually requiring me to go and pay a visit to anyone), he'll invite me to meet someone with greater debating skills to present his case for him. And I might indeed find that interesting.

On Friday at teatime, I went round to see Steve. I'm afraid that he didn't come up with any new points. We're getting nowhere in these discussions, and I think he realizes that. But what did impress me greatly was the degree of self-confidence that Steve has regained since his conversion. He is at last back to the point where he was when he first arrived at Eton. He is still intensely shy, but he now seems sure of himself. And I admire Christianity for having done this much for him.

On Thursday evening I sat up with John L-T, Laurence K and Colin C, listening to the election results as they came in. I did not attempt to vote this time. But if I had done, I expect it would have been for the Conservatives.

Perhaps I'd better explain myself in greater depth. I felt little urge to vote because Wiltshire is Tory to the core. So my vote would have been utterly superfluous, if I had gone to all the trouble of driving down there to put my cross on that little bit of paper. But my reluctance to vote stems from something deeper than just that. For I'm wary of committing myself to any particular political party before I've made up my mind on what my political viewpoint should really be.

Conversationally, I am not strictly honest on this subject. At deb dances and the like, I like to give people the impression that I might be a socialist - without actually saying that I am. But this is because I find such people to be far too dismissive of socialist ideology, which I find in many ways to be quite admirable in its display of sympathy for the underdog. But in my heart I know very well that I do sympathize with the Tory position - because my whole family background is rooted in that culture. At the same time I do perceive that this isn't a good enough reason for voting Tory. I must think out my own position more personally, to see if there is sufficient reason and sufficient idealism for me to cast my vote for them, then I expect that I shall do so. But in the meantime it is fair to regard me as a floating voter, who has yet to commit himself.

While listening to the results, we all played chess. And there was a game with Laurence in particular which showed me up in a bad light. It was tediously slow in developing, but I was developing a powerful attack. But when I launched it, I placed the vital knight in the wrong position so that it was in line with his queen and got taken. The rest of us have been playing by rules where we warn each other if some folly has occurred. But Laurence wouldn't let me take it back - so I lost! And this led to a lot of wrangling. He wrong-footed me by taking the line that it was only a game, so I was just displaying myself as a bad loser. But he was also claiming that my demise hadn't depended upon the loss of my knight - which was untrue. And I wanted to prove this by reconstructing the game so that we could continue from that point - with as much money as he pleased upon the final result. But Laurence declined on the grounds that it was time for him to go to bed!

Now that it is all over, I feel ashamed with myself for minding so much. I think it may well display that I can be a bad loser. All I can say in my defence is that I could accept defeat without rancour if I deemed that the victory had been fairly won. But it renders a person too vulnerable to expect fair play. I've got to harden myself into the realization that I'll encounter foul play at every turn in my life. Not that it's fair that I should be accusing Laurence of foul play in this instance. (He was after all, just insisting that we abide by the rules!) But I've got to loosen up on my approach to life, or I'm going to get hurt. I must learn to take the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune without showing any pain.

All day Friday the election results continued to come in, with a favourable improvement to the Tory position. However the gains weren't quite as high as they'd been expecting. It looks as if Churchill will have a majority around the 60 mark.

I have played a couple of games of chess with John, which I enjoyed greatly - with one win apiece. But I think John has a better idea of what he is about, within the tactics of the game. It's nice to have someone that I regard as being of approximately the same standard as myself, notwithstanding. I wish I had played a lot more games in the past, for it furnishes such a delightful arena for intellectual contest.

I had a game of chess on Monday evening with Colin, which I won by a narrow margin. But he's a bad loser. He was immediately claiming that I'd spent so long in making my moves, that he'd lost interest and concentration. And he went on to claim that it would have been a different story if.... if.... if.... That's rubbish however. I just wore him down!

I am very glad that I started writing this journal. I find it a great help when seeking to define what I think. When I first began, I think I wrote that I was doing it primarily for my own interest. And this is still true. But I must admit that, while writing it, I often take into consideration the potential reader who'll see it in time to come - so I continue explaining myself until I think that reader will understand. I do my utmost not to withhold any intimate details from my account of events, just because they'll (eventually) be read by others and thus prove embarrassing to my memory. I try to write in the spirit of it being a letter to an exceedingly intimate friend. For that is the light in which I regard this future reader of my journal.

I fully realize how, in the event, he may on occasions turn out to be far less friendly disposed towards me than I might hope. He may well have as many prejudices against me as the kind of people whom I meet today. And this journal will no doubt furnish him with all the evidence that he'll be hoping to find, for substantiating the case that he's building up against me. Yet by writing it in this intimate vein, I do manage to obtain all the benefits of a really strong friendship, without many of the drawbacks - such as a responsibility to sustain the friendship. I do find that I manage to offer myself advice, which I might never have clarified for myself if it weren't for the journal. And even if it turns out that I am writing what amounts to another "Diary of a Nobody", it will still have served its purpose as a personal process of therapy. The fact that it might then serve no real interest to anyone, except as a record of how an inhabitant of Longleat once lived, doesn't matter so much.