I was intending to stay at the Cavendish, but when I got through to Mum, she invited me to come round to Caroline's house for lunch. And then they invited me to stay with them - so I was able to do so without a feeling that I was intruding. And I did note how on this occasion, there was no indication that Harry had been primed to express David's opinions of me!

Caroline herself was making a big effort to bridge the feeling that there might have been an impending rift between the two of us. And it was evident to me that Caroline had been championing my cause against David, for there was a moment when she turned upon him and declared that he'd better watch out, or Alexander might put someone like him into one of the novels that he'd be writing someday. David just laughed good-humouredly.

By the end of the boat-party however, it seemed that David was losing patience with me again - having observed what he regarded as my drunken behaviour. And this was much in contrast to Caroline's attitude towards me, which I also mention in my journal. But I had best start with a reminder of the tension which was building up between Christopher and myself, (as previously described) when I found that we were both on the same boat, whilst [Y] was on the one which had already departed.

Christopher came over to me in a perfectly friendly manner, but I have no wish to be friends with him until he accepts that we do not attempt to poach our respective girlfriends. Therefore I greeted him coldly, and did my best to avoid him thereafter.

Caroline was particularly sympathetic towards my plight over the entire evening, for I had explained to her how I was feeling low after that brush with [X] at Trevor Dawson's wedding. And I talked to her about [Y] too - how I couldn't get myself into a party mood, knowing that she was probably dancing with Christopher at this very moment, over on the other boat. She said she didn't understand me on this point, for I seemed to be telling her that I was in love with both [X] and [Y] at the same time. She seemed to think that the human heart doesn't function that way, and that I ought to get it sorted out in my head which one of them I was really missing. But I don't see things that way at all. It is perfectly natural to me that I should feel emotionally about the two of them at the same time. Caroline did agree however, in thinking that Christopher's behaviour was reprehensible. I told her that I could really kill the little bastard. She just expressed the hope that I could find it in my heart to be generous towards him - although I didn't feel much inclination to behave as she advised.

On the way back home in David's car (along with Caroline herself and Laura Smith - now Brand,) I feigned to be asleep. This was a ploy to keep out of David's attention, for he had been scowling at me towards the end of the evening. Then I heard him giving Caroline a lecture on the behaviour of the Thynnes when they get drunk - intended indirectly as a rebuke to myself, although poor Caroline was having to take the brunt of it. He was saying that we become objectionable! I just sat there with my head back and my eyes closed, but with a broad grin upon my face. In fact Laura commented upon this, with a laugh which didn't exactly please David.

Thank you for the glorious carved wooden camel, which you have given me for my birthday. I shall take it to the Tangier house, and keep kiff in one basket and hashish in the other. You couldn't have found anything that I'd like better.

I rang you up the morning after the boat party, but unfortunately you had already just left. I did want to have a chat with you, to find out what your plans might be. Are you definitely not coming to Luggala this Summer? I think it might be problematic, since the vile Deakin will be there.

It does sadden me that you feel so strongly about Christopher, and wish we could have talked so that I had an idea why you find him so objectionable. He came up to me at the boat party and told me that you had looked at him in an awful way, and he asked me if I knew what had annoyed you. I said I didn't, which was true. I think it would be rather sad if you parted in bitterness, when he is going to be away for so long, and that you might regret it later.

I am glad to hear that life is becoming less depressing now. I do wish I could come over to see your new lodgings at Oxford, which I hear are very nice. I should also like to see how your new rooms at Longleat are coming on, but it might be best for me to wait until after our legal trouble is sorted out, and I finally know who I am. It could turn out to be a bit difficult to arrange, since we are planning to go to Tangier in September, and I believe you are going to be away all August. So it might not be feasible.

Anyway sweetie, keep in touch, and tell me all that is going on.

After lunch we all went for a ride upstream in an electric canoe. I was seated at the back, but when coming out from Boulter's Lock, I suddenly noticed that Dad (up front with Virginia) was himself shouting at a middle-aged man standing on the deck of a launch, which was towering above us to the right. The man had been objecting to all the smaller boats slipping up past his, telling them that they should wait their turn. But when he said this to Dad, he was told not to lose his temper, and to come out on the river in the same spirit as everyone else - to enjoy themselves - whereupon the man spat down in the water and did the fingers up sign. And this caused Dad to explode. The man suggested that he should step up on to the deck of his launch where they could settle the matter, to which Dad shouted: "No, you step down here, and I'll knock you for six!"

I regarded all this as Dad's personal quarrel, so pretended to be looking elsewhere. But Virginia reproached me afterwards for not coming to Dad's assistance. "After all you were a boxer!" I felt peeved that she should have expected me to involve myself in any way at all - as if I were Dad's bodyguard, or something. I simply don't see that as my role in life. And it's important that Dad should learn not to pick quarrels that he can't himself handle - as indeed he had managed on this occasion. And Dad in fact agreed with me, saying that it had been nothing to do with me at all. So we left it at that.

On Monday we were all invited over to have drinks at Sturford with the Mayalls. It isn't looking half as nice as it was the way Mum had it. Indeed it looks very patchy indeed. The Mayalls themselves were pleasant, and almost apologetic for occupying our old home. The only real problem was that their male bulldog kept on trying to mount Locker, who regards himself as being equally male, and never really took to the idea of getting buggered. There were several outbreaks of fighting when the two dogs had to be separated. Mary made excuses for her own dog's behaviour by saying that he was so randy because (like Hitler in the song) he only had one ball - which sounded a bit illogical to my ears.

I have been watching all the exam results with great interest as they get published in the Times. John Searle has got a First. Seconds were obtained by Spooner, Swire, Kelly, Camu, Packenham, Girouard and Jolliffe. Thirds were obtained by Skinner, Hastings, Tate and Ganzoni, while Lumley and Schwartzenberg got Fourths. Judging from these results, I think that I ought to be able to get a Second - although Jimmy Skinner's grading is a bit discouraging. Maybe I should take warning.

Dad has offered to bet me £100 to £10 that I won't get a First. But I don't want to take him on. There's going to be quite enough strain as I approach the ordeal of sitting my Finals, without the prospect of humiliation in losing such a bet with Dad.

On Wednesday we all went over to lunch with Aunt Kathleen. Some distant Thynne cousins were there too. Brian Thynne has a pretty step-daughter called Penelope. She was apparently at Winkfield with [Y]. She told me that [Y] was exceedingly unpopular with the authorities, who suspected her of grave immorality. But she didn't expand on this - which left me curious to know the full story! But I remember that [Y] did tell me herself that she was sacked from Winkfield.

Kate had a tale to tell about the way in which, as a young girl, she went to a party where there was an elderly man who kept ogling her. And she learnt afterwards that this was Viscount Cole, who had been one of the gentlemen cited in the Maudant divorce case - along with the Prince of Wales that is to say. And unlike the latter who stated on oath that there had been no immoral conduct between himself and Lady Maudant, Viscount Cole took a long holiday abroad so as to avoid having to perjure himself. So Kate likes to think that he is the most probable choice to be considered as her putative Grandfather - or as my own Great-Grandfather. She seems to think that in ogling her, he was looking to see what his own grandchild was like. But I would have thought that there would be sufficient curiosity to perceive just how much she resembled Lady Maudant. For everyone says how Kate is the one who looked most like her mother - which is to say Lady Maudant's illegitimate daughter. And I think I prefer the idea that we might be descended from Edward VII - in preference to Viscount Cole that is to say - even if it does involve a little perjury somewhere along the line!

In retrospect, and knowing what Dad is like, I should have managed this with greater delicacy - making some effort to conceal what I was doing from his view. But it hadn't occurred to me on the spur of the moment how this could be done. And Dad became very angry indeed - gradually working himself up into a fury, no matter how careful I was being not to answer him back. But it was almost as if he was ready for this row, within his own schedule for the evolution of our relationship. And once his internal engine had started to propel him in this direction, there was no stopping him. What I dislike so much is that he is incapable of rebuking someone with an appeal to their reason. Instead of that he adopts a military style, as if he regards my misbehaviour as a breach of discipline - a case of me disobeying orders which should have been understood. And I'm no longer prepared to stand for any of that.

He starts behaving like a tin-pot dictator on these occasions, making only a slight effort to justify his behaviour by saying: "Your mother would have been just as angry as myself, if she'd seen what you did. Yes, and you wouldn't have done it if the Duchess of Kent had been lunching with us. So you can damn well show me the same degree of consideration." Then seeing that Virginia was looking reproachfully at him, he declared that she'd have been just as angry with her own children under similar conditions. But Virginia is capable of scolding her daughters without insulting them. Dad simply doesn't understand how his rebukes leave a nasty taste in the mouth. And I'm too old to be treated like this.

It's really fortunate that I don't have to live at Job's Mill with him, or I'd find it necessary for me to answer him back in no uncertain terms. The fact of me being able to keep my distance from him certainly helps. My best policy is to simmer in silence. But I'll have to accept that it might be better for me to avoid the whole Longleat environment, if he's going to treat me like that.

I had not been looking forward particularly to see Dad. The way he'd lost his temper with me after I'd spat out that mouthful of cauliflower cheese was still too fresh in my mind. While I had been in Italy, I'd sent him a couple of post cards. But in the first, it may be that I was taking too much of a dig at him. I'd said: "Camping is such fun - at any rate there are no baths!" He may regard this as a joke in bad taste. And I rather think that I may have posted it without a stamp, which will mean that he received it with a demand for `postage due'. So I tried to make up for it by sending him a second post card which was uncontroversial.

Anyway, when Dad arrived back at Job's Mill on Saturday, the atmosphere appeared perfectly friendly. And since then I have seen quite a bit of him, and much of my bitterness has been washed away. Not that I am fooled into supposing that he is now a reformed character. On the next occasion that I annoy him, I anticipate that he'll be as unrestrained as ever in his reaction, endeavouring to reassert his fragile sense of dominance with domineering tactics.

But I should take note of the fact that, at dinner time on Sunday, he made a real gesture of friendliness in telling me that he would pay for all the alterations I've been having done, to prepare my new rooms at Longleat for my residence - a sum which will be in excess of £500. So I feel most grateful for his generosity. I wish he could always be like that!

We then had a further discussion on the possible lines for my future, after I come down from Oxford. It was really just a question of us both restating our positions on the issue, without any sign at all that one of us might be giving ground. In other words I reasserted my intention to paint, and to write, with a brave show of confidence that I shall succeed quite happily in those ventures - whereas Dad was proclaiming the need for me to take "a serious job". In that he didn't persist however, it does perhaps show that he is resigning himself to the fact that he is unlikely to shift me from my intent - which marks a degree of progress I suppose.

On Saturday I drove back from Tilshead to Longleat. And while I was there, [P] rang up to say that she was with Christopher Gladstone, and asked if they could come over to see me. So I invited them to dinner. I found the whole thing one hell of a strain, for the conversation didn't flow. And [P] herself was tense, attempting to fill in the silences with bursts of engineered vivacity.

By the time that we all got back to Tilshead, I was feeling exhausted; and we'd all been invited over to dinner with the 10th Hussars. But I was first anxious to get a good bath - as indeed were several others. So I took Anthony Snow and Michael Foljombe back to Job's Mill, to find no one at home except for Biblet.

Anyway we each took possession of one or other of the bathrooms. But I was surprised to find that Biblet (who is still only eleven) came up when I was running my own bath, and was behaving in a manner that was distinctly flirtatious. I know that it was in her mind that I might strip off and climb into the bath in her presence. And I more or less needed to chivvy her out of the bathroom so that I could proceed in privacy. Then she returned and thumped on the door while I was still relaxing in the hot water, as if she was expecting me to unlock it - which I didn't of course. But she did come and chat with me while I was changing.

It makes me wonder what she has been getting up to of late, while out in Spain staying with her father. She is certainly a great deal less shy than she was two years ago. There is a knowing air about her actions. And she's damn attractive for a girl of that age. I'll have to be careful not to give her any false impressions concerning what games are permissible within polite society! But when she's a bit older, then who can tell what might evolve?

We all became a bit argumentative over the course of the meal, with Dad back in overbearing form. But the quarrelling wasn't between him and myself on this occasion. He was merely delighting in the opportunity of stoking up the antagonism which rapidly emerged between the two male guests. Keith Neale got very drunk and was trying to get off with Prudence, who is alternately flirtatious and provocative. And Harry was taking offence, to an extent when it looked for a while as if they'd start fighting.

Dad was endeavouring to persuade the Neales to leave, but there was a problem in that Keith was insisting that he was still competent to drive, while [Y] was insisting that he wasn't. And of course Harry was goading him from the sidelines - prompted in this aggression by Dad, who was taking a mischievous delight in their squabbling. But it merely served to worsen what was already quite a dangerous situation. It occurred to me that my own best contribution to a resolution of the problem was to take Harry for a short drive in my car, giving Dad the necessary time to solve the remainder of the problem. And during this drive, Harry was drunkenly advising me that I should go round to see Jane Neale when "that shit of a husband" was abroad, and that I should kiss her. He evidently thought I might regard it as indelicate if he were to say fuck. I just sat there saying yes to all his suggestions, and it was around 02.00 hrs before I managed to get home.

This is going to be a business letter, so please answer it forthwith.

Xan and I have decided that it is idiotic for us to go on living in England, as we shall be infinitely better off if we get domiciled abroad. But it's not possible to do this if one owns any property in England. Cowrie is mine for my lifetime, after which it would go to you.

I have asked your father if he would like to have it back, but he doesn't want that. The upkeep is very expensive, as electricity and rates are so high in Cornwall. My lawyer has suggested that we should sell it, coming to a fair agreement with you to divide what we got from the sale. I can't remember if Dad paid eight, or ten thousand for it. I think this would be a much better arrangement for you, as if I live to be eighty years odd, you would be in your fifties by the time you got it - and then have to pay death duties on it. I talked to Dad about it, and heard from him today that he thinks I would be right in getting rid of Cowrie, subject to your own agreement - which I hope you will give.

My lawyer has talked to Farrer, and I think the idea is that the proceeds of the sale of Cowrie should be divided as an actuarial valuation - which means on the basis of my life expectation. Perhaps they might say that I ought to have less than half of the dough. Anyway, providing it sells, we should both get round about four thousand smackers, which would be enormously helpful.

I do hope you will be coming out here for Christmas - the house will be really comfortable by then. It is terribly exciting living in the Casbah - sheer Arabian nights. People are getting in a bit of a flap, thinking there might be an Arab rising. But as this is an international zone, I don't think there will be anything serious here. They have too much to lose. Our Arab neighbours are charming to us. It is really the Frogs whom they detest. Moving into the Casbah is going to furnish me with some splendid material (mostly funny) for a new book.

Now do be a love and answer this letter by return of post, as I must make plans for the future.

On Monday evening Christopher returned from Venice. He could not stop talking about [N] for a single moment. And I was delighted to hear that we might now have our sights upon different girls, and I'll be careful not to interfere on his side of the fence - provided that I don't find him slipping back into his old ways. My fear is that he enjoys the whole business of trying to prove that he is a more romantic figure than myself. So can I truly expect that he will stop intruding upon my territory?

He furnished me with an interesting insight into his current state, psychologically. He tells me that he keeps on having nightmares that he is sterile! I'm not at all sure what to make of that. It doesn't sound as if he's actually sleeping with [N]. So I wonder how far they go? None of my business I suppose!

Thank you for your letter. Re Cowrie - I would not be allowed to keep it when I become a foreign resident. One isn't allowed to own any property at all in England, even if it is rented to someone else. And if (as you say) you might want to hang on to it so as to give it, eventually, to Valentine, you would have to pay all the taxes on it, and all the upkeep - which is considerable. As Cowrie was provided as a part of the alimony, if it goes, I think I should have something in its place to make it a fair deal.

Valentine's intentions are set on getting a job in America - like Christopher. So we may hope that he finds himself a rich, beautiful, and good heiress. Or you could set him up as the Manager of Cheddar Caves, which might persuade him to stay on in England.

To escape from the workmen who are creating Bedlam in our house, we went to stay with a writer called Peter Mayne, in the most heavenly seaside village in Spanish Morocco.... I was pursued by a dotty cobbler, who showed me how to make a shoe at lightening speed.... He used very crude sign language in such a sly manner that Xan and Peter couldn't see it happening - shaking hands and tickling my palm with his forefinger - and then lighting my cigarette, shielding the flame of the match with his cupped hands, but tickling my chin with a spare finger, and with his eyes winking madly, to say nothing of sexy pinches!

Christopher wrote asking if he could bring [N] to stay. I had to say no, as the workmen are still creating such havoc. But the house will never be big enough to house more than one person to stay at a time. There could also be someone camping outside, but it would always need to be someone that we knew very well, and who was easy in the house.

I am able to go riding here, which I enjoy enormously. I have been lent the most lovely white Arab horse, on which I go riding through Cowboys-and-Indians scenery.

We are thinking of going for a few days jaunt to buy parrots in Spain! I received a sad little postcard of Callington High Street today from Diane Abdey saying:-

Write and tell me that it's okay about Cowrie - because I really will need the dough to make things comfortable here.

Loads of loving - Mum.