On Thursday I returned to Oxford. I found 5 Folly Bridge fully occupied, and the Grid was quite full too. It was nice to find that Ian R is up at Christ Church again, after the period of his rustication - although he is now a full year in arrear of the rest of us who were Freshmen two years ago.

It could be that [H] is going to become a bit of a problem as a neighbour - situated up there in the room just above my own. There was an incident on Friday night which may have been indicative. Some female cousin of Nikita's and Tatiana's had come to Oxford for the weekend, and they had been trying to find a room where she could doss down without going to the expense of a hotel. And perhaps unwisely, they had approached [H] on this subject, who had offered her the spare couch in his own room.

He had come down to see me earlier that evening, to ask if he could borrow some clean sheets - and to explain the whole situation to me, about which he was quite evidently excited. And that night, I could hear him serenading the girl on the piano in his room. This was followed by a prolonged silence. Then the girl came downstairs to the bathroom (just outside my own room), and she stayed there for a very long time. Then I heard [H] outside the door, enquiring where she might be - evidently with some idea in his head that she might have sought sanctuary in my room. And this posed the question concerning what the hell might have happened upstairs. But it was foolish of me to laugh, when I heard [H] saying something about Alexander not being the kind of person from whom she might safely seek advice. It only occurred to me after I had laughed, that she might genuinely be in need of human counsel - just for me to put her mind at rest within whatever situation [H] might have created for her.

After a muffled conversation through the bathroom door, it seems that she came out and briefly went upstairs again with him. But within a short space of time, they were back on the landing outside my door, and her tone was still worried. [H] was evidently trying to soothe her, saying: "It will be all right, I promise you..... Really! I'll give you a key." They went upstairs again, and a little later, it was just his feet that I could hear coming down, and it seems that he left the house to sleep elsewhere.

I never caught sight of the girl, for she must have got up early in the morning to refind Nikita or Tatiana. But I was able to fill in the missing details of the story from what [H] himself told me later. And it doesn't sound too good.

I think it is quite possible that [H] had supposed he was being presented with a sexual opportunity. And he really is most clumsy in these matters. (Even more of a virgin than myself, I'd be prepared to wager!) He says that after serenading her, he had been trying to get her into a romantic mood, and he had been told somewhere that girls quickly surrender when they are frightened. So he was actually trying to induce this fear, in masterful macho style, but all as if it were in a game - from which he could quickly detach himself with a roar of laughter, if he saw that things were beginning to go wrong.

He had asked her if she would like to see what it was like to experience the initial stage of strangulation. And most unwisely, she had agreed to this, lying back in an armchair while he pressed with his thumbs on her jugular veins upon each side of her neck - carrying on with this until she actually fainted. And when she revived, the thought naturally entered her mind that he was in the process of raping her - which I feel sure could not have been [H]'s intention. But he had now taken the game too far, and he was unable to extricate himself.

She had fled downstairs to regain her composure, and [H] had initially assumed that she was seeking my protection. So he had been at pains to make her believe that I was an even more dangerous threat to her chastity than himself. And my reaction in laughing had been most unfortunate, in that it had created the impression in her mind that she had fallen into a den of monsters. Apparently she was literally in tears after they went back upstairs together, sobbing that she'd prefer to walk the streets all night rather than to remain under this roof. Even when [H] had promised to leave the room and the key to her, and to sleep elsewhere himself, he still found it difficult to set her mind at rest that I wouldn't manage to haul myself up on to her balcony from my window, once she had fallen asleep, to wreak my foul will on her.

Well I felt badly about all this in that I had been so misrepresented. But [H] was assuring me that the girl had seen the matter quite differently within the clear light of day, acknowledging that she had been very silly about the whole thing. But I can't say that I like it. And it worries me that [H] might have a streak in him which is dangerously out of control. People sometimes joke about myself being mad. But in [H]'s case, my worry is that he might conceivably behave in a manner that would be judged criminally insane. And I have him as my neighbour over the next year!

On Sunday I went to some drinks that Colin C was giving, to find that he now has a huge Great Dane in his rooms. It appeared to be friendly, so after a few glasses of wine, I gave it the same kind of treatment that I would give to Locker. But as I brought my face towards his, he suddenly went "Woof!" - and planted a couple of tooth-marks on my face. I don't think it's really a vicious dog, but it evidently didn't appreciate being teased. And he'd drawn blood on my cheek. So I felt it might be safest to call in at the Radcliffe Infirmary, to ask them if they regarded it as advisable to have an anti-tetanus shot. It was quite a trivial little bite, but they decided to play it safe, and gave me a jab.

Then I went home to Folly Bridge, and Nicky Greenwell turned up with Joy Gregory, who is now working as a gossip-columnist on the Evening Standard. She told me that she needed a story, and asked if I'd mind if she used this one - about me getting bitten by a Great Dane. I hardly thought that it would be of much interest to her readers. But she assured me that she'd make it sound a lot more interesting than just that. And she did too! I’d best quote it in full.

All I can say is that Joy has a vivid imagination. And it was an entire invention that [Z] had been at the party at all. It was just a ploy to present our names to the public within the same item. But having said that, it's clear that Joy was endeavouring to be nice to me. It might even be that [Z]'s invented comment about having a nice way with dogs, might be intended to signify that she's a bitch! But I always thought that [Z] and Joy were good friends, so I have my doubts that such innuendo could be intended. Or perhaps what she originally wrote was that I myself had said: "She has a good way with dogs!" - which of course would be a sample of malicious wit, such as I do not possess. But her editor would have understood that this might cause trouble for me, so altered it. And I'm told that the quotation was dropped completely from later editions of the paper, which may be an indication that someone had complained - or the papers lawyers had warned that such a misquotation might still be libellous.

Joy had in fact been probing to discover exactly what went wrong between the two of us during our travels along the Romantic Road in Germany. But I've got to be careful not to say anything at all communicative about it. I know damn well that all I say will find its way back to [Z]'s ears, so that each of us will then be firing counter-shots until the feeling becomes acrimonious. I'm perfectly aware how all our friends are dying to know precisely what went on, but it's far safest that I should leave them with [Z]'s version, and nothing substantial within mine. It will normalize the situation quicker that way.

I am in fact able to glean more or less what [Z] has been saying about me. She makes a big case of how I treated her in a miserably stingy fashion - fussing about all manner of expenses. And she makes a big joke about the subject of her frustrating me on the subject of sex, excusing herself on the grounds that she had always made it perfectly plain to me that it wasn't going to be that sort of a holiday. Apparently Bill Broadhead wrote to Joy after [Z] and I had departed, fishing for more accurate detail on the nature of the relationship between us. He had been unable to recollect my name, but described me in the letter as a "lemur-eyed" boy constantly expectant, but relegated to a position of sexual frustration. And I do see how the description may have been apt. But I don't like the way it shows how [Z] was talking about me when they were in his bedroom together. And it's hardly appropriate for my romantic image that people should be encouraged to perceive me that way!

I also learnt that after [Z] and I split up, she went on down to St Tropez where she took up with some waiter, or barman - who turned out to be a reporter on that vicious American magazine `Confidential', which is notorious for telling the bedroom secrets of the rich and famous. Well I'm told that this man wrote something upon the sexual romps on that scene - including a small piece upon what is made out to be the debauchery of this member of the famous [Z] family, citing in evidence how she ditched a Viscount to have an affair with a waiter. (It remains unclear whether I was actually mentioned by name, but it is sufficient for those in the know to snigger about it.) I have no idea precisely what may (or may not) have happened in his case, but it's all utterly absurd - and most unflattering to myself in the way I am assuming it to have been presented.

My general depression about life is as bad as ever - relating mostly to the current absence of any girlfriend in my life. I long for [Y] very much indeed. But the situation is hopeless. It simply cannot be as I might desire. She doesn't want me, and my pride is such that I cannot allow myself to behave as if I wanted her. If I find that this is possible, I shall drop her from my life completely. But that won't alter the fact that I am still longing for her.

Or it might be more accurate to say that I am in a state of longing for any girl. I need someone whom I can openly regard as being my girlfriend, and with whom I can indulge in all the sexual practices that we might desire - or in other words what I need is a love-object. It's so unfortunate for me under the present circumstances, that I have no one more amorous in inclination than [Y], who is currently available.

I need to find myself a girl who comes from outside the narrow limits of the social group in which I have mingled up to date. It would be good for me to expand my amorous horizons, if only the opportunity came my way. Otherwise I'm liable to find myself restricted in outlook to that of my own kind throughout my entire life - on the supposition that I marry into this circle as well.

Now that [X]'s wedding day is approaching, I find it quite easy to accept that she has departed from my life. I perceive her as someone who might so easily have become my wife, and I'd like to remember her that way. I would also like to give her a very nice wedding present. At the same time I've got to be tactful in this matter. I mean if I gave her something too valuable, or too personal, then it might become a subject for [H]'s resentment. (I still don't know how she may have described our former relationship to him.) So I finally bought her something that will be equally useful to the two of them - a radiogram. I wonder if they'll use it, or just give it away?

There is a slightly awkward situation developing between myself and the Lucas-Tooths. I run into Caroline quite frequently and, now that she is a married woman, I somehow feel more at liberty to chat freely with her - devoid of seductive intent, but still very much conscious of her sexuality as a woman. In fact I enjoy conversing with her far more than I did before she got engaged, so that I now regard her as a closer friend than I formerly did. But I know that John has some notion in his head that I may be falling in love with his wife. And the fact of me knowing the thought which has entered his head is a cause for me to feel embarrassed in his presence.

It has reached such a pitch that I find myself blushing when I encounter either of them. And this just makes it a lot worse, as it merely serves to strengthen their supposition that I am falling in love with her - which isn't actually the case. I just like her. But I can read the expression on John's face as being amused, far more than anxious. There have been a remark or two from others however - namely Ian R and [F] - to make me realize that the subject has been mentioned to them, by John I assume. So I now find myself greatly embarrassed at any prospect of finding myself in Caroline's presence - which is utterly absurd when I come to analyse it. I must try to regain my equilibrium, and behave as if nothing at all was the matter.

On Thursday I went up to London for [N]'s birthday party. The awful part is that I went up there secretly in the hope that I might be seeing [Y]. Nor did I know how I would feel when remeeting her, although I was hopeful that I'd be able to appear friendly without in any way making a fool of myself. She was there all right. But on seeing her, I quickly realized how this neutral attitude was going to be impossible to sustain. I either have to love [Y], or hate her. And since she doesn't want to be loved, then it has got to be hate.

When in this sort of mood, the only thing for me to do was to ignore her, while doing my utmost to make it appear that I was enjoying myself. And in a strange way I really was enjoying myself - in a drunken sort of way. In fact I was soon quite inebriated - shouting at everyone. And I even went down to the kitchen at one stage, and pinched the cook's bottom. This made her angry (unless it was just pretence), but in any case she chased me up the stairs, and I took refuge in the drawing room, calling upon [N] to make my peace with her.

But as the evening wore on, I noticed that Christopher was dancing with [Y], and I immediately realized how I was no longer enjoying myself. So I went to another room and lay down on a sofa in an attempt to sleep off the effects of the drink. I knew that I shouldn't be driving home as I was. But after a bit of a rest, I felt a whole world better, and in fact drove back to Oxford quite safely. [Y] had already departed by then.

I knew that [Y] would be coming down to Oxford for the weekend - along with Christopher, Bendor, [N] and crowd - with a view to attending the party being given by Herbert, Ashton and Gage on Saturday. I went along to it, still in the secret hope that I might find sufficient pretext for a reconciliation with [Y], but strictly on my own terms. Then once again, as soon as I saw her, I slipped back into a determination to avoid her. And this attitude has endured over the entire weekend. In fact it has been one of the most miserable weekends that I have spent at Oxford. I now feel worn out, and thoroughly wretched.

Largely because I had drunk too much, I returned quite early to Folly Bridge. But another reason was that I seemed unable to escape from [Y]'s presence - first at the party, and then at the Grid. So I supposed I might find peace of mind if I retired to bed. But I was mistaken. I hadn't been sitting for very long in my room, when I heard a party starting up in Francis' room just across the landing. And sure enough, I could discern [Y]'s drawling tones quite distinctly from the rest.

If only she would realize that we must resign ourselves to this position of either loving or hating, then perhaps she would spare me from the torment of meeting her. For she puts herself in a position when I am bound to run into her. And coming back to Folly Bridge was all so unnecessary, under the circumstances. I even fear that she inflicts me with this suffering quite deliberately. As it was, I found myself in a state when it was quite impossible to get to sleep. I just lay there in misery, waiting for [Y] (and the sound of her voice) to depart. But that didn't happen until about 02.00 hrs. And by that time, I was so much on edge that I couldn't think any longer of getting to sleep. So I got up and sat by the electric fire.

Then [Y]'s brother came in for a talk - nice and friendly for once. In fact I suspect that he feels a degree of sympathy with me in my current misery over [Y] - not that we treated this as a subject that we could discuss. But an understanding of the issue was in our minds. It was a curious situation. Francis had gone off somewhere, leaving his room to be slept in by two people who didn't even know each other, which is to say [Y]'s brother and someone called [Q]. It wasn't long before she came and joined us in my room, where we remained drinking coffee and chatting until about 04.00 hrs.

I rather liked [Q], who was pretty, pert and friendly. Apparently I have met her on various previous occasions, but I can't say that I really remember her. I am not clear if there hadn't been some scheme afoot, with [Y] herself involved in the plan, to introduce me to [Q] in this fashion - perhaps even to furnish me with a new girlfriend. But it's difficult for me to be sure about whatever may have been planned, or what was taking place by accident.

I learnt that [Y] was sharing a room with Bendor in the Randolph Hotel. Not that this signifies very much. But I couldn't help wondering just how well they were now getting on with one another.

Next morning [Q] came back to my room to ask me if she might share my breakfast. And I must admit to feeling consoled that she appeared to enjoy my company, although she didn't really manage to relieve me from my depression. I eventually took her along to drinks with Peter Stormont-Darling. But then [Y] arrived with Bendor, so I didn't feel inclined to remain there any longer. I just made some excuse to [Q], and left.

Not that I had anything special to do. In fact I spent the entire afternoon just writing this journal, or sitting in an armchair feeling miserable for myself. Jimmy S called in at one point, and after a drink or two, I felt a lot better. By the time I went along to the Grid in the evening, I learnt that [Y] and crowd had already departed for London. And I promptly felt a whole lot better, as if a load had been lifted from my mind.

The inner torment that I have experienced however, doesn't bode well for the future. The real problem lies in the conflict of intent, with part of my mind still believing that somehow or other, I shall eventually manage to capture [Y]'s heart, while the other (more sensible) side of me pronounces the necessity to turn my back on her completely and seek my fortunes elsewhere. The events of this last weekend should at least convince me that I must commit myself to this latter line.

Having written the preceding part of this entry, I had put my journal away and was just about to go to bed, when my fortune took a sudden turn for the better. [Q] suddenly returned to my room in the company of her group of Bailliol friends - friends of Francis that is to say. As far as I can make out, she was invited down to Oxford by [A], although I don't think that she regards him as her lover.

[Q] isn't the most subtle of people. I sensed how the Bailliol crowd had been chivied into bringing her down to Folly Bridge on false pretences. [Q] was declaring that she needed to check that Francis' room would still be available. But one of them pointed out that this information was already known, so they could now proceed to some gambling party to which they had all been invited. [Q] now excused herself for her persistence by saying she'd needed to check that there was an alarm clock in the house, so that she could get up early enough to catch the first train. I told her that I could lend her my alarm clock, but she was still finding pretexts to stay drinking in my room, whereas the others were longing to move on to the gambling party. And [A] was quite evidently annoyed by her procrastination, becoming all flustered in his speech.

Anyway they finally lost patience with [Q], and went off to play poker. And I thought for a dreadful moment that [A] was going to continue in his punning vein, by suggesting this might be what I was intending to do to [Q]. But it went unsaid, and they left her chatting with me. She had declared that she mustn't have a late night if she was to get up so early - without seeming to realize that the true logic of her remarks would have been to catch the last train back to London so that she could sleep in her own bed that night, to wake up as fresh as she pleased. But I suspect that [Q] skates breezily over matters of logic, relying far more on a vigorous determination to push events into the pattern that pleases her.

We were not to be left alone however. [H] displayed his insatiable curiosity to establish what manner of relationship might exist between [Q] and myself, by rushing down to see me on a variety of pretexts - always appearing disappointed that he didn't even find that we were kissing. I'm told incidentally that he has now fallen out with Christopher Arnander and Francis Nicholls, because of some piece of buffoonery that went awry. I do see how [H] might be a troublesome neighbour.

Then James S and Laurence K dropped in for a drink, to be joined soon afterwards by Jimmy S and Joy G. They find it hard to accept the break with Oxford life, or so it would seem. James and Laurence got Seconds all right, but Jimmy and Joy got Thirds - which ought to set warning lights flashing in my own head. They were far more sensitive than [H] in discerning that I might not really want their company at this particular point in time. In any case it wasn't long before they all took off for London by car.

I had noted how [Q] made no attempt to enquire if there might be room for herself in their car. And even after their departure, she displayed no sign of thinking it was her bedtime. So I assumed that she was expecting me to make a pass at her. With all due caution, I waited until I could be sure of this, and I could read that the expectation was there quite openly on her face. So I did kiss her. And one thing led to another until we were eventually naked to the waist, and snuggled in each other's arms, which is the way in which we spent the rest of the night. Then she got up early, and I drove her to the station to catch the first train to London.

This had marked a surprising turn in the tide of events within my romantic life. Or that is the manner in which I might hope to view the evening in retrospect. I certainly welcome the change, for it might serve to halt this trend towards general depression. But I don't see this as an affair which is liable to be of real importance to me. Nor must I ever permit her to suppose that it could be so. I can tell already that, much as I like [Q], we are by no means kindred spirits. She is an utterly different type of person by temperament, and from the manner in which we conceive life's problems. She was all eager to know my birth sign, and to read the lines on my palm - as if these constitute important elements in determining whether we are suited to one another. She was quite put out to hear that I am Taurus incidentally - on the grounds that we are too "earthy", and we apparently don't get on well with her own sign, which is Sagittarius. But as far as I'm concerned, it would seem that she takes these matters far too seriously.

On Monday there was a short piece in the Evening Standard, written by Joy G, but relying on a complete fabrication of events. I had best quote it in full.

It isn't even as if she managed to make the `party' sound particularly interesting. But I suppose she thinks that she can't very well return to her paper empty-handed from a visit down to Oxford. I should just be relieved that her remark about myself was totally harmless, although it was unnecessary for her to link my name with that of [Y]. In the light of how things really stand in that quarter, I'd have preferred it to have remained unstated - not that it matters I suppose. But [H] was simply furious on the grounds that it might get him into trouble with the Proctors. So he wrote a letter of complaint to the Evening Standard to say that the whole story was a complete fabrication - as a result of which Joy has been given the sack. In other words he has landed Joy well and truly in the shit - which is all too typical of him, I fear.

On the other hand it must be admitted that Joy was playing a dangerous game - trying to emulate that gossip-columnist in one of Evelyn Waugh's novels, where fictional characters and events were created to supplement the dearth of material of any interest upon the social scene. The idea looked good in a novel, but she was asking for trouble by implementing the technique in reality.

On Thursday I drove up to London to attend [X]'s wedding. I was in a strange mood - wondering how I myself would be feeling if I was to be the bridegroom that day. There were occasions when I felt a lump in my throat, and was less than happy. Then I discovered that I was doing something which now strikes me as odd. I was endeavouring to cover up my feelings by pretending to get drunk. And it worked - like clowning for the same purpose. And I think that I indulge in these tactics more than I may have previously realized. It offers people a front, beyond which they need examine no further. And I was putting it on this time too, adopting the symptoms of drunkenness partly because I felt it was expected of me in my role as rejected suitor, and partly because I didn't want them to perceive what I might really be thinking on these matters.

And then there was another reason too, in that [Y] had chosen not to attend this wedding - for what particular reason I couldn't tell. But it got me wondering if my own judgement was at fault in turning up for it myself. Charlie Morrison put that point to me quite bluntly when we were queuing up for the reception. He laughed and said something to the effect that this was one event where I might have done better to remain absent. I was at a loss to know what to say. But he didn't mean it unpleasantly. It's a rare experience having to watch a former loved one getting formally spliced to another. And I think I endured it as well as might be expected.

I have seen [W] a couple of times so far this term - the first occasion being when I went to discuss my new thesis with him soon after my return to Oxford. But he picked me up on my description of instincts, and the discussion finally centred upon the matter of repressed instincts. But it finally occurred to me that he was insinuating that I have repressed my own instincts, and he was warning against the danger of doing this - telling me how such behaviour ultimately results in the repressed instinct becomes increasingly manifest throughout one's entire behaviour patterns.

I think I neglected to say how I was asked by Mr Macdonald, the Headmaster of the Lord Weymouth School, to invite some don to come down and present the prizes on their speech day, when I too will be required to make a speech. So I have persuaded [W] to accompany me over there next week. But I cannot say that I am looking forward to the idea .

I motored down to Longleat on Friday, in time for tea, and for a weekend party to celebrate the move into my new rooms round at the front of the house. I had invited a number of guests - both men and women, which in fact marks an advance upon the regulations as to what Dad might regard as permissible behaviour in our day and age. I mean it wasn't so long ago that he insisted that any woman whom I invited would have to sleep at Job's Mill. But I suppose his attitude has softened, after hearing about all that goes on in the houses of friends - like Philip Dunn's. There is now no likelihood that he would object to me having unmarried girls to stay at Longleat, although I did in fact have a married couple in the house with me - if that is supposed to make any difference. That was the Lucas-Tooths. And then there were Ian R, Tim R, Tatti O, [F] and Jenifer Bush.

As a weekend party, it turned out to be a miserable failure - which was totally my own fault. I shouldn't have attempted to hold a party while I was still in the throes of a depression, which is liable to endure until I've established myself in some fully consummated relationship with a woman that I can love. Within my limited situation as an isolated single man, I feel as if I'm only half my potential as a couple. It's rather like observing that you can't clap with only one hand. The joyous sound is a product of two.

We cooked ourselves a rather bad dinner, after which we sat round drinking in my drawing room. But the conversation didn't really flow. Caroline read out a letter from [Y], saying that on Thursday, she was giving a dinner for Mark D-B, Bendor D and Christopher - before a dance to which I too will be going. (I doubt if I'll cancel it.) But the very mention of [Y] merely served to make me sink further into my depression. I was feeling truly sick at heart, and just curled up into a ball on the floor and went to sleep. And the mood was contagious. It came as no surprise to me that the others found pretexts to depart on Saturday afternoon. I must never give another party when I don't feel up to the task of playing the host. I myself shall be driving back to Oxford on Sunday evening.

On Thursday I went up to this party at the Savoy in London, where I knew that I'd be seeing [Y]. And the misery of it is that I simply don't follow my own advice. With half of my mind I was still doing my utmost to ignore her. But there were times when I caught her looking at me in a way that seemed to be testing how I feel towards her. And I wanted to seek reconciliation with her. But I do know that the situation is hopeless. And all my friends know it too - including those who have heard her talking about me from her side, which in all probability was in terms as dismissive as when I've heard her talking about Bendor. I've got to get it into my head that the romance is over, or I'm just going to make a silly fool of myself in all their eyes.

On Friday I drove down to Longleat with [W], to attend the Speech Day of the Lord Weymouth School. I was feeling distinctly nervous, since this was going to be my first ever public speech, as the Chairman of the proceedings. Not that it needed to be very long - just sufficient to introduce [W], which I performed quite effectively I think. But [W] courted the Headmaster's displeasure quite dangerously by proposing that the school be awarded an additional holiday - which went down well with the boys, but hadn't really been on offer.

On Saturday was Guy Fawkes night, when there was a party being given by David Galloway, Robert Oakshott and Anthony Martin at Lincoln College. It started quietly enough, but the drink had been laced with vodka to an extent that people were drinking a lot more alcohol than they perhaps realized. And not for the first time, I was drinking rather too much myself.

Then I spotted a pretty girl with a solemn expression, whom I always see working most industriously when I go to the PPE reading room. I suppose there are about three girls whose names I have yet to discover, whom I have noticed for quite some while in that reading room. And this was one of them. So it occurred to me that this might be my opportunity to go up and say something to her. Well it was with this idea in mind that I started fuelling myself with alcohol, to bring up my courage to the right pitch.

Not that this went according to plan. Having got myself sufficiently tight, I found that the girl had departed. So I was left with nothing better to do than to get even more inebriated, and enjoy whatever the party might have to offer.... [Then at a later stage of the evening].... I decided that it was best not to put further temptation my way and I just went home, knowing how I'd be safer in bed - because I have such a record of falling foul of the Proctors on Guy Fawkes night. And besides that, I was beginning to feel sick.

Today Sunday, I have been feeling the effects of a hangover. I had been invited for drinks by Ian R, but I only felt capable of drinking orange juice!

This afternoon I was sitting in my room when [Z] called in to see me. It was a friendly greeting, to which I responded far too frostily. So she met this by enquiring if we were still on speaking terms. And it was all fairly amicable by the time she left. [Z] can be quite disarming when she wants to be nice. She takes nothing too seriously - as I myself am inclined to do. And she has a far more generous nature than I have. I'm not likely to forget the difficult sides to her, and I still feel that she behaved badly towards me. But none of that is of much importance I suppose. It's nice that we have remet on friendly terms, and there shouldn't be any problems concerning future encounters.

I can hear that Francis is in the process of giving another of his parties, to which I have not been invited. Not that I had any wish to go to a party, but it does indicate perhaps, that he doesn't regard me as a friend - which is a pity, because I regard him as pleasant. And it may well be intended as a rebuke for me being rude to his friend Anthony Martin, last night....

On Tuesday I was sitting in my room writing an essay, when [C] walked in. She told me all about her recent rows with Gerry Albertini, but as far as I can make out they have now patched them up and remain good friends - although she's not living with him any longer. She's now with some Irish boyfriend, whose name I don't remember.

Just as things were beginning to warm up between us, Alexander Dunluce came up from downstairs - having heard the sound of our voices. I like him, but he does tend to latch on to people when they might prefer to be alone. I wonder if it occurs to him that sexual advances might be in the offing? The display of a chaperone-instinct perhaps? Anyway I finally managed to shed him by inviting [C] to come and have dinner with me, without inviting Alexander to join us.

We had dinner at `The Bear' in Woodstock. I like [C] and find her very easy to talk to. She never just sits there passively waiting for me to indicate the direction of a conversation, but keeps it going with stories about her own recent life, or attempting to elicet information about mine - a subject where I do need to hold back, or I might find it all printed in the gossip-columns! But I don't think that [C] has it in her heart to make a victim of me in that fashion. She might be hopeful of gleaning a few leads from me, which could then end up as stories in her paper. But she's really just curious on the subject of how any young aristocrat behaves - her own father having been a coal-mining official in Glasgow, I believe. (Her black hair might almost convince one that she was of Mediterranean origin - but she isn't.)

Afterwards I asked [C] whether she'd like to come back for a drink, or should I take her back to the Randolph Hotel. She said that she supposed it ought to be to the Randolph, and somewhat disappointed, I started driving her there. But when we were just approaching it, she declared sheepishly that I ought to have been more assertive. So I turned the car round and drove her down to Folly Bridge.

She tip-toed up the stairs, but [H] was sitting in Francis' room, with the door ajar, and he must have seen [C]. So when we got inside, she told me to lock the door, to forestall any of his nonsense. She sat down, and was obviously waiting for me to start kissing her. I did. Then after a little while, I put out the light and she allowed me to undress her, gradually.

This ranks as the very first occasion that I have properly fucked a woman - I mean without paying for it. And I do of course regard it as a significant event within my life. There may be very little distinction between what I did to [C], and what I've already done to the likes of [X] or [Y]. But at the same time the difference in the absence of restraint and inhibition is simply enormous. It may have been nothing so very special as an act of copulation, but of course it's going to endure forever within my memory. For at long last I have a fully-fledged sexual relationship within my experience, and the relief is somehow enormous.

After we'd completed the act, we dozed off for a while. Then I drove her back to the Randolph Hotel.

Over the course of this past week, I have been feeling much depressed on the whole subject of [Y]. I have actually been considering the prospect of proposing to her. When nothing else seems liable to jolt her into re-evaluating our relationship, I am driven to consider such an idea. For our lives might be very different from what we've seen of them upon the social scenes of Oxford and London, if she were to follow me abroad. We might both benefit from experimenting with a bohemian lifestyle - in Paris, or anywhere else that might suit her fancy. But the current situation is hopeless. We need a reconciliation before we can get down to discussing anything at all.

Within this mood of pessimism, I had been undecided throughout the week on whether I should attend the Grid dance, which was to be held at Blenheim Palace on Saturday. But I did finally go - and failed to enjoy a single minute of it. [Y] and Bendor, Christopher and [N] were all present. [Y] was making a big effort to force me back on to friendly terms. She rushed up and kissed me to say hello. But it was all so horrible to see her accepting the fact that I'm no longer her lover. It was horrible to know that she was trying to soothe my wounded spirit - even (as I suspect) trying to arrange for me to get off with someone else. Not that [Q] was there on this occasion. But it could be that they have all decided how I ought to take up with [N] - now that she has virtually split up with Christopher, as I'm told. In fact Christopher himself told me somewhat gruffly that I ought to come and dance with [N]. "She's been trying to get you all evening." And I'm really not sure what to make of all this.

I mean, what kind of an arrangement am I to suppose that they've reached? Is [Y] telling Christopher that if he permits me to start having an affair with [N], then the way will be open for the two of them to develop their own relationship somewhat further? Or does the initiative come from [N] herself? Perhaps I should pay more attention to what Christopher himself had said. He had gone back to sit on a sofa beside [N], but they weren't talking to one another, and this had endured for a full half hour. So I did finally go up and ask her to dance.

Then while we were dancing, she said she had just done something awful, but that it was too closely connected with myself for her to be able to tell me about it - although she dropped a hint that it was connected in some way with her break-up with Christopher. And I suppose I can construe what she means. I'm imagining that she's told him that I'm the one she would like to know better. (It would be premature to say marry, when we've never had sufficient opportunity to get to know one another properly!) And I do see how such a pronouncement must have been most hurtful to Christopher, who was adopting his "Don't care" attitude which I can remember so well from his childhood.

But the idea of stealing a girlfriend from Christopher is somehow far less attractive to me than people might imagine. If it's going to happen, then I'd prefer for there to be a wider gap in time between the periods of our attentiveness towards her. If I were to take up the opportunity, then it would merely feed the flames of this competitive spirit which always prompts him to try and prove that he's in some way better than me. I find Em attractive all right, but it's somehow difficult to feel amorous towards her while I'm still besotted with the thought of [Y].

But she did more or less ask me to take her home with me to Folly Bridge - ostensibly to drink, because the booze at Blenheim had run out. But who knows what might have evolved from that situation? In my current mood of depression however, I declined. So I just went home - leaving [N] on her own, and looking just as depressed as myself.

[N] looked in to see me in my room this morning, Sunday, but I was still in no mood to respond to her. She soon left. And I could hear that [Y] was in Folly Bridge as well. Then I ran into her later, when I was leaving the Grid. She rushed up and tried to start a conversation, but I drove off quickly before she got a chance. When back in my room, for a while I was supposing that she might come down to thrash out the whole topic of our relationship - with hope unfading that she'd see her way to reviving it on my terms. But of course that was a vain hope. And she has now left for London, with all the rest of them. I'm never going to be able to win her back, so it would be far more sensible for me to learn to hate her.

Later [F] came in, and I was still feeling too depressed for me to make any effort to converse with her. So we spent a long time just sitting there in silence - which was rather comforting. And when she was about to leave, she turned back and said that she liked sitting with me so much, as although we were both in equally miserable situations, it made her relatively happy to discover that there was somebody who always seemed more miserable than herself! She also intimated that she liked me the second best of all the people at Oxford that she knows. (That left me pondering whom the favourite person might be, in that I've lost track completely with the state of her current love life.) She said she thought I'd find that everything would come right for me by the time I reach forty. But I prefer to take a more optimistic view upon the length of time it will take me to get my life sorted out into comfortable shape.

I have at last discovered the name of the attractive girl in the PPE reading room. I got it from a book-slip which she had left in the shelf. I still don't know her first name, but she signs herself "J. de B-Hubert." (I hope the J doesn't stand for [Y]!) Judging from the books she has taken out, it would seem that she's studying Psychology.

I know that she is aware that I am aware of her. She displays a twitch which involves screwing up her eyes and nose - just slightly - whenever I look in her direction. But she avoids returning my gazes, so I can't say that it looks hopeful. What I ought to do is just walk over and talk to her, but I cannot find the courage (or the self-confidence) to do that. I get the feeling that she might be too reserved to respond in an encouraging way. But I enjoy fantasizing upon the possibility that we stand on the brink of getting to know one another.

On Tuesday evening, Ian R gave a small party where the main interest revolved round the subject of a letter which had come into the possession of Sebastian Yorke. He had found it in the PPE reading room. The man who had left it behind had been sitting beside Sebastian, and opposite myself; but he had neglected to take in what he looked like. So Sebastian was questioning me on what I might remember of him - although I was unable to assist him in any manner of identification. But it really was a fascinating letter - from an undergraduate to his mother. The gist of it was as follows.

".... I have always told you all about my sex life.... There was .... and .... and ...., who etc.... etc. These were all big mistakes, as you know. But now I have fallen in love again.... She is like.... etc.... She is a good Catholic, and sings in the choir.... an English scholar at Somerville, whose name is Ann.... I can't work for thinking about her...."

I find it fascinating to hear how other undergraduates relate to both their mothers and their girlfriends. The idea of me writing such a letter to Mum is quite unthinkable. And the premium on being a good Catholic is curious too. But I suppose that this undergraduate might find the way I go on about [X] or [Y], within this journal, to be just as curious if it comes to that.

Another point of interest was the way in which we all reacted to Sebastian's reading of the letter. The majority of us were horribly unsympathetic concerning the agonies that this undergraduate must now be suffering, on realizing that he must have left such a letter where it might fall into the hands of those who wished to ridicule him. We were all guffawing with laughter. The only really nice person turned out to be [H], who insisted that we were just being horrible. In fact he grabbed the letter and tried to destroy it, so that fighting broke out, and John L-T got his hand bitten at one point. The letter changed possession about five times, although it was eventually returned to Sebastian. Not that he intends to make any special use of it!

There was more fighting at the Grid that evening - this time between Ian and [H]. And rather surprisingly, I judged that Ian got slightly the better of it. The Eggletons got furious - especially when one of the combatants sat in the dish of sliced pork pie.

When [H] got back to Folly Bridge, he was in one of his most tiresome moods, trying to regain his sense of equanimity by discomfiting others. When I myself arrived back, he was in the process of teasing Francis, who promptly tried to persuade him to transfer his attentions to myself instead. And for a moment it looked as if such an idea appealed to [H]. But he evidently thought better of it, and went upstairs instead - to start teasing Christopher A, as we later learnt.

I heard a lot of thumps and bangs coming through the ceiling, and then there was a prolonged silence. It wasn't until next morning that I heard the full story. Apparently Christopher hit [H], and [H] then lost his temper. He swung a blow at Christopher which caught him on the chin, and Christopher went out like a light - felled to the floor and concussed. [H] is somewhat bewildered, since this is the first occasion that he has ever knocked someone out. It's a dangerous precedent I fear, since [H] will now perhaps regard it as a thrilling new game. But his initial reaction is favourable, in that he's vowing that he'll never tease anyone again.

On Wednesday I received a card from [Y], inviting me to her 21st birthday dance on 5th December. But it only served to throw me back into a depression. I cannot possibly go to it, and I have answered to that effect. The essential requirement would be for me to be pleasant to her, seeing that it was her birthday celebration. And I might even find myself cornered into a position where reconciliation might be expected of me. But I can never offer this on terms which she might allow. So I've got to keep my distance from her.

After the Bullingdon dinner on Friday, a number of us came back to Folly Bridge in order to finish off the remains of a bottle of whiskey. We were about to enter my room when I noticed that there was a light showing under the door. [Q] had in fact written to say that she might be visiting Oxford this weekend, and hoped that my couch would be free for her to sleep on. But she hadn't phoned to clinch the matter, and I hadn't really expected her to arrive before Saturday. But I opened the door and there she was, after midnight, seated in my armchair, with a suitcase on the floor beside her - reading my Encyclopedia of Sexual Practices! I was a pace ahead of the others, so I hastily closed the door and announced that I was feeling rather tired, suggesting instead that they do their drinking over in Francis' room.

They went without protest. But it was a delusion for me to suppose that I might be left in peace. One after another they found some pretext to come knocking on my door - the one in quest for a glass, another to ask for sodawater, and Anthony Shiel even pretended to mistake my room for the bathroom. So in the end I had to lock the door - although next morning I discovered that they had all been seething with curiosity concerning the identity of the briefly glimpsed beauty, because no one had been able to identify her. I frustrated them by ducking all their queries.

But returning to the night in question, it was quite evident that [Q] had arrived a day early with a view to advancing our own relationship. And once it was clear that the visitors had all departed from Folly Bridge, [Q] declared that it was her bedtime - clearly expecting me to invite her to join me in my own bed. And that is indeed what happened. Having changed into her nightdress, she came over to my bedside to kiss me good night. And from this point it was merely a case of proceeding along the path which both of us intended.

I did ask her if she was a virgin, to which she answered: "Not quite" - later divulging that there has been one previous experiment, which (in her own words) had not been an enormous success. What I did note was that her vagina seemed to present me with a tight fit. And I discovered there was quite a lot of blood on the sheets next morning. So I'm not quite clear what to think on the subject of whether or not she was a virgin.

That particular situation is indeed quite curious. I mean would she feel that it was necessary to furnish me with false information on that subject? Values are perhaps in the process of changing within that area, with virginity being something which she feels she ought to deny - or at least to obscure - so as to give our sexual desire the required scope for manoeuvre. We live in a strange world with our values in a state of transition, as I see it. But I didn't give voice to my doubt - the question that [Q] might be slightly more virginal than she claimed. For if I'd done so, I might have found myself honour bound to forego the pleasure of an imminent seduction. Nor were we worrying about contraception, since [Q] declared that she had only recently had her period. So we were free to have a merry old time, without perhaps getting quite as much sleep as might be good for us.

Perhaps I should ask myself if I was being sufficiently responsible in this matter - because I could hardly claim to being in love with [Q]. So does that mean that I'm behaving like a shit? But I really don't think so. I've got to loosen up in my sexual activities, if only to catch up with everyone else in these matters. And I daresay that [Q] feels the same is necessary for herself. I truly think that we can be of value in assisting each other to shed our sexual inhibitions.

Another point that I find curious is that, within such a brief period of time and after such a prolonged absence of such fulfilment, there have now been two women displaying their eagerness to climb into bed with me. So it's a puzzle to see what may have changed in me to trigger this new response. Why has it never happened to me before? Could it be that my personality displays a sudden spurt forwards upon its evolutionary track, so that I appear to women as more evidently bed-worthy? Or does it relate to the fact that women are aware that I am currently footloose and eager for re-attachment, after being ditched by [Y]? Or is it because for the first time in my life, I am living in a room with a spare bed available? I remain uncertain of the realities in this situation.

[Q] had her own social activities to contend with over the course of the weekend. And I had mine. Sue Blandford had sent me a telegram inviting me over to Lea Place for dinner on Saturday. There was a dance at Blenheim that evening, and she was inviting me to escort [N] to it. But I confined myself to accepting the dinner invitation, while declining the dance - on the grounds that I was suffering from a hangover, but really because I knew that [Q] would be waiting for me back at Folly Bridge.

It is rather awful that I'm not being more responsive to [N], but the truth of the matter is that her relationship with Christopher (however innocent it may have been) inhibits me from wanting to develop any further with her. I like her all right, I even find her attractive, and it flatters me that she should appear to be wanting me so much - especially, I must admit, because it serves Chris a lesson which is long deserved. But it's all so unnecessary to embark upon a relationship which might merely serve to augment his feeling that I have had too many of life's advantages. Additional resentment over me stealing a girlfriend from him might give rise to future unpleasantness.

[N] told me how she had cried all the way back to London last time she was in Oxford - because I wouldn't talk to her when she came to my room to see me. I hadn't intended to seem unkind, but I'd been feeling pretty miserable at the time. It's really that I think far too highly of [N] to make a casual seduction of her. Nor would it be fair of me to flirt with her, without more serious intention. Until I've expurgated [Y] from my heart, I don't want even to consider the complications in offering it to Em.

It was still quite early when I returned to Folly Bridge, and [Q] soon came and joined me. She'd been to a party somewhere at an American air base. Then she was off again on her social round next morning, returning around teatime - more than a little tight. She had with her a girl called Rosemary Knight, and it seemed that she was endeavouring to deceive her concerning the fact that we are now lovers. This was in the presence of [H] as well. But if that was her intent, she was most careless in saying all the wrong things. She was priding herself in the role of false presentation, going out of her way to misinform them about which beds we had both occupied. But in subsequent conversation, she managed to get us switched round into the other beds, without realizing that they must have noted the inconsistency. [H] did in fact murmur that it wasn't as if the ceiling was sound-proof. I could see from Rosemary's expression that she too knew perfectly well how we'd been fucking all night. And it was all so silly of [Q] to be concerned to pretend otherwise. It wasn't even as if there might be some advantage in such misrepresentation. I even suspected that she enjoys deception for its own sake - a point that I note with caution.

Anyway [Q] went off with Rosemary to this party in Bailliol, and I calculate that it must have ended not long after 23.00 hrs. But she didn't come back to Folly Bridge until after 02.00 hrs. So it leaves me wondering what she may have been doing in the meantime. She did in fact mention that she'd been sitting in someone's car for quite some while. And I refrained from asking her any questions about this. I'm just pleased that I didn't feel any jealousy on the issue. But I can't say that it pleased me to suspect that the girl in my bed had possibly spent the last hour kissing with another man.

It also didn't please me greatly having to get up in the early hours of Monday morning, to drive her down to the station so that she could catch the first train back to London. As a result of it I lost about three hours sleep, which meant that I failed to recuperate all day from my general exhaustion. I had been intending to catch up on my work for Schools, but instead of that I just put myself to bed after lunch and slept all afternoon.

This morning Tuesday, I received a letter from [Q], thanking me for the weekend and saying that she is intending to come back to Oxford next Friday. I felt I'd better respond to this before the whole situation gets out of hand. So I have written her what I hope is a tactful letter, endeavouring to dissuade her. And I took the opportunity to warn her that I am in fact in love with someone else, where the relationship hasn't been going very well for me of late. But I did stress that, in my present state of mind, I would never consider the prospect of marrying anyone else, no matter what the situation which might arise - which implies any pregnancy of course. That's just so that she doesn't go building up any fantasies in her head about being the current love in my life, and to forestall the possibility that she might go spreading stories to that effect.

On Thursday morning I received an answer from [Q]. She is obviously taken aback by my letter, although she covers it fairly well. She says that she has decided to take off for Paris next weekend, instead of coming down to Oxford. She goes as far as saying that she thinks she agrees with everything I wrote, but that she'll set her mind to it while she is away in Paris. (With whom, I wonder?) It could be that I was too explicit in what I'd written in my letter, and that this is the last I'll be seeing of her. But I don't think that she's taking it that badly. It's best that I should have been frank with her. I had suggested that I might instead, drive up to take her out to dinner in London, sometime next week, and she now accepted this invitation. So I'll have to wait until then to hear the outcome of her reflections on the matter.

I keep on bumping into the attractive girl from the PPE reading room. She appears smitten with self-consciousness whenever I cross her path in the street - which I find rather touching. It reminds me of my own tendency to blush in equivalent situations. And the fact that I perceive this reaction in her tends to embolden me. I have now found (from another book-slip) that she is indeed another [Y]. Ah well - it just can't be helped!

Since I had seen her talking to Tom Godfrey-Fausset on one occasion, I went up and asked him about her, when I found him having lunch in the Grid. He gave a good report saying that she was a very nice girl, who intends to become a psychologist - although she has a tendency to take herself too seriously perhaps. That doesn't put me off her in the slightest. In fact I find the description most attractive.

Oliver Fox-Pitt was sitting nearby at the time, and I noted how he had picked up attention as soon as I had mentioned her name. And Tom indicated that I ought to ask him for any further details, since she was a friend of his. Oliver responded to this by blushing a deep red. Then he stammered that he did know her - "Rather well actually. Would you like me to arrange for you to meet her?" I hastily declined his offer, since I couldn't tell in what spirit it was being made. I mean it could be that he was claiming that she's his girlfriend. But the information is all too vague, and I hardly think that I should feel discouraged from getting to know her better. I'll just have to contend with all those problems when I find them identified for what they really might be. I claimed that I'd just been wondering what nationality she might be. It had indeed occurred to me that her face was akin to the depiction of Egyptian faces in the time of the Pharaohs - Cleopatra's face perhaps, or even that of the Sphinx. But they assured me she is English - although descended from some Huguenot immigrant from the time that they were being persecuted in France.

So I'm now involved in all the end of term activities.... I went along to the Nepotists' carol-singing party, which left me uninspired. [F] was there. She made a big effort to persuade me to come along to [Y]'s dance with her, saying that she needed to find someone who might take her back home. But this left me uncertain whether this implied that she wanted me to escort her for herself, or whether she was merely employing subtle tactics to get me to renounce my distance from [Y]. But I can't have that.

On Friday I drove up to London to take [Q] out to dinner. When I arrived at her flat, I found her engrossed in family quarrels with a girl called Jennifer, who is married to her brother. It struck me that [Q] was being her usual headstrong self, in attempting to bulldoze Jennifer into doing things she didn't want to do. And I must admit to feeling some sympathy for her. I wouldn't appreciate such treatment myself.

I took [Q] to a cinema, and then on to dinner at the Lyric, where we had the misfortune to run into Adam K. He was perpetually sniggering behind his hand, and intimating that he would have to tell [Y] about my infidelity. It was evident that he isn't abreast of recent events, which is to say that no one seems to have told him about my sad demise in her esteem.

[Q] had invited a lot of people round to Jennifer's flat for a late evening party. But we didn't put in an appearance ourselves until after midnight. So we found Jennifer in a thoroughly disgruntled mood by the time we returned, for which I can hardly blame her. Various people that I knew were present - including Nick Phipps, Nick Clarke and Sarah Barnard, with the latter making a big endeavour to steal me from [Q]. She was hardly making any effort at all to conceal her intention. [Q] was quite visibly irked by Sarah's overt flirtation with myself, so I complied when she suggested that we move to another room and listen to someone who was playing a guitar. I heard Sarah murmur: "Mary had a little lamb!" - which didn't please me greatly. But I felt that I should demonstrate that my loyalty was to [Q], and paid very little further attention to her.

I found it embarrassing that both [A] and Robin Benson were at this party. [A] especially gives the impression that he resents my intrusion upon his relationship with [Q] - such as it may have been. Benson doesn't appear to mind so much, and anyway, [Q] informs me that he is still in the picture - to the extent that she was kissing him in a car, when she was last down at Oxford.

[A] is someone who comes out with curious behaviour on the spur of the moment - to a degree that some people judge him mad. On this particular evening he took it into his head to telephone the police, to say that there were a lot of rowdy drunks in Jennifer's flat, asking for them to be turned out. I think he imagined that what he was doing was funny, in view of all the chaos that the request might cause. But it didn't seem a bit funny to the long-suffering Jennifer, when two constables appeared at the door of her flat. And then of course they had to be given a drink, to prevent them from taking offence at such a false alarm. It struck me that the situation might suddenly start to deteriorate, so I suggested to [Q] that I take her back home to her flat - which she accepted readily enough.

I stayed with her all night, and there was quite a lot of love-making - to an extent that the Durex broke. So I'm a little bit anxious on that score. Or not really so, since by my calculation of the date concerned, we ought to be safe. I left her Kensington flat in the early hours of the morning, and travelled back to Oxford while the roads were still quite empty.

Today Sunday I was sitting in my room when [Z] arrived, to invite me to accompany her to some party this afternoon. I didn't want to see more of her than I could help, so I came out with the first excuse which came to mind - which was to say that I had to do my Christmas shopping. She just laughed and said: "What? On a Sunday?" So to save myself from further excuse-making, I accepted. But when the time came round, I didn't go along to it. And I've just received a note from her to say that she is now really angry with me. Not that it would trouble me, even if she was!

On Monday I spent the day doing odd jobs such as were necessary to close down Folly Bridge for the Christmas holidays. I was feeling depressed - especially as the evening approached. This was the day when all of my friends would be going up to London to attend [Y]'s 21st birthday party. And I kept on wondering what she might be doing at that given moment in time. I don't really suppose that she was ever thinking about me, but I kept on wondering if she might be. And it was horrible to be feeling so very much alone. But this was my own choice, so I can hardly blame anyone for that.

On Tuesday I drove home from Oxford to find that everyone at Job's Mill was still up in London for [Y]'s dance. So it wasn't until Thursday that I saw anything of Dad or Virginia. They only talked a little about the dance, and about the people they had seen there - quite a lot about Jimmy's engagement to Joy. But my own feeling is that they suit one another rather well. They did have a trial separation for a little while, but then got together again for a spirited reunion, which I believe coincided with the time she descended upon Oxford to write all those troublesome stories about us.

I couldn't help noticing how they were being oh so careful not to talk about [Y]. The truth of the matter is that they have never really taken to her, and I think they blame her for all the ill feeling which has brewed up between Christopher and myself. I noted how they were constantly telling me how attractive X, or Y, might have been looking, without there being any mention of [Y] herself. I wish I could feel that my girlfriends met with their approval, but it doesn't look as if that is going to be the case. Or in any case, I don't think they'd like it if I do eventually marry [Y]. Nor would they have approved if my bride had been [X].

When we were talking about Jimmy's wedding plans, Virginia said something about the sad drop in the average age to get married. And they were both adding remarks in this vein, as if it were a theme which they'd previously decided to bring up for my benefit. I could detect meaning in Virginia's voice as she declared that she couldn't understand why young people wanted to get married so early in life. "I should have thought it would be so much nicer to remain free for a while."

I suppose that on paper, this might sound like good advice. But what such married people fail to remember is the terrible loneliness that arises within such an unmarried estate - especially when as isolated from the other members of this family as I happen to be. And there is the relative absence of sexual gratification too. They forget about all that in their trite advice that we should be happy to remain single. But they should never discount all that terrible frustration.

It disturbs me that trial marriages are not encouraged within our society. Trial marriages with efficient birth control, that is to say. Provided all those kind of problems were adequately addressed, it would surely lead to a less problematic method of conducting our lives.

On Wednesday I took a train up to Oxford so as to attend Jimmy's wedding to Joy, after which the whole party moved on up to London for the reception. I forgot to say how there had been an embarrassing piece about me in the Ephraim Hardcastle column in the Sunday Express. A man called Peter Baker had been ringing up, ostensibly in friendly fashion, to ask me about my forthcoming trip out to Tangier. I was being oh so careful about all that I said - to no avail. He managed to put words into my mouth which made me sound absurd.

That was last Sunday. But here outside the church, after the wedding, I was enquiring from Colin C if he could give me a lift up to London where the reception was being held. He said his car was full, but turned to someone else and asked him if he had room for me. And it was only after I'd accepted the lift that the man introduced himself as Peter Baker. So I found myself truly ensnared. And he was giving a lift to [Z] as well. In fact I'm pretty sure that Colin set me up for this scene with some measure of malicious humour - perhaps even at the request of both Peter Baker and [Z], who might well be her current lover for all that I know. But having appreciated that I was trapped, I made the best of it, endeavouring to converse merrily with them all the way up to London. And the point that I should really note perhaps, is that [Z] does appear to be doing her best to befriend me once again - although I don't want it to go any further than just that.

I had gone to the reception with this perpetual (secret) hope that there might be a reconciliation with [Y]. And she did turn up there, which I chose to regard as a favourable sign. (Or would she have come anyway, even if she'd supposed I wouldn't be there?) But it was no good. I kept on hoping that we'd be forced to speak to one another, but always found myself ducking out at the last moment. And by the time that she departed, I realized that I had never even once caught her eye.

Once I knew that [Y] had already left the reception, I knew that it was no longer any place for myself. So I went and telephoned [Q] and took her to the Montrose Club, of which she's a member. It was a place with a good atmosphere, but she subjected me to an unpleasant experience involving one of the waiters, which I am unlikely to forget in a very long while. It was roughly as follows.

When going there she had mentioned that there was a waiter at this place who was rather flirtatious with her, but I hadn't seen fit to take this as a warning. But I was to find out not only that he was flirtatious, but that [Q] encouraged him in that attitude. He turned out to be the caricature of what Englishmen regard as a smooth Italian - rushing to pull out the chair for [Q] before she sat down, and chatting to her most intimately with little pieces of pet advice when she was selecting what she wanted to eat from the menu. But in doing so, he was discounting me completely as her escort for the evening - so that I was soon feeling quite ridiculous in just sitting there next to her. I felt that he was diminishing me, or even emasculating me. And I eventually felt constrained to put him in his place by reminding him that I was her escort, and that he was the waiter - which I did by telling him (gently enough) that we'd like him to fetch our order since we were hungry.

But this damn waiter had no intention of permitting me to put him in his place. He looked at me coolly and declared: "You sir? I do not think that you would know what it is like to be hungry. When I was a small boy in Naples...." I interrupted his tale of childhood woe to point out that I'd merely said hungry, and not starving. With a surly smile, he went off to place our orders.

When he finally returned with them, he reverted to his flirtation tactics with [Q], informing her what a delicious meal she had chosen for herself. But when he set my own plate before me, there was a trace of menace in his voice as he said: "And this sir, is what I've brought for you."

Now I do happen to have read enough of George Orwell's account (in `Down and Out in London and Paris') of how waiters are apt to spit on the victuals of anyone who has offended them, so that I understood perfectly well the nature of the menace in his voice. And I did find it enormously difficult to enjoy what I was eating, after registering what he had said. In fact I've been puzzling ever since what the correct attitude for me to have adopted might then have been. I mean I couldn't prove that he had actually done anything, which would have justified me summoning the Manager. Even to have tried walking out from the club, while refusing to pay for what he'd just brought to our table, might have ended up with me spending the night in jail. Indeed, I am by no means sure that there could have been any easy solution to my predicament. So under the circumstances, I just did as best I could by feigning to enjoy the meal that I was eating.

But the fact is that I wasn't enjoying it. So I left about half of it untouched. And the unpleasant waiter commented on this when coming to remove my plate, by saying: "Oh sir! What a pity that you are not hungry!" I played dumb in assuming that he was merely disappointed that I hadn't enjoyed it sufficiently. So I said: "It was very good, thank you."

Then when the time came for me to pay the bill, I produced my cheque book. But the waiter declared that he couldn't accept a cheque - whereupon I saw my opportunity to counterattack by asking to see the Manager. He promptly declared that he was the Manager. There was an awkward hiatus while I pondered what my next step should be - perhaps just to tell him that the payment would be by cheque, or nothing, and see how he reacted to that. But there was a blond haired lady at the bar who may well have been the Managress, and who had evidently witnessed the antics of her employee, and judged that he was overstepping his authority. So she put him in his place by calling out that a cheque would suffice. He didn't like this at all, but the charade could now be concluded without further loss of face on either side - although there was a certain feeling that I had now gained the upper hand, even if I may have been obliged to swallow whatever filth he had seen fit to put on my plate.

I was feeling a bit sore with [Q] for exposing me to the cheek of this waiter. It may be an injustice to say that she was actually flirting with him herself, but to some extent she was giving him encouragement. She was making him feel that his antics were welcome - which reinforced him in his behaviour. And I don't like to be in the company of a girl who lets me in for such treatment. But I didn't want to let this ruin the evening for us. And I didn't. In fact we went on to the Millroy together. And afterwards I took her back to her flat and went to bed with her. She is a delightfully randy young woman - and I think that this does greatly augment the potential of any relationship. But she wanted me to get up very early in the morning, so that the owners of the house wouldn't see me emerging from her room.

On the negative side, [Q] does display a tendency to investigate whether she can arouse my jealousy, by hinting that she may be having affairs with others. She doesn't say so directly, but she appears to be watching me to see how I'd react if that were the case. The hint was that she's been seeing Robin Benson, if not others too. But the fact of the matter is that I don't really care. I like [Q], and can enjoy myself in her company. But I'd be a fool to entrust her with any deep emotions. She'd play even greater havoc with them than [Y]!

Today Thursday, I've been feeling hangoverish, with nothing better to do than to go walking round London in the drizzling rain, and to sit at Heathrow bringing this journal up to date. I've just been killing time - waiting for the evening when my plane is due to depart for Gibraltar, on my way out to stay with Mum in Tangier.

I was arriving back in London late on Tuesday evening, so I gave [Q] a call and invited her out to dinner. She took me to Esmeralda's Barn, which is an excellent place where the waitresses are immensely attractive. But when I asked [Q] if she could get me made a member, she declined - probably for the reason that she regards this as one of her special stomping grounds, and she wouldn't like to find me observing what she gets up to - or even arriving there with girlfriends other than herself. This shouldn't surprise me, I suppose. And in any case she did take me back to her flat for the night, so I have no real cause to complain.

[Q] tells me that she had to pay a visit to her doctor recently because she was continually wanting to go for a pee. It never stopped. He is quite an avuncular figure apparently, and she has been going to see him for quite some time. But when he suggested that the cause for her malady was that she'd been indulging in too much sexual activity, she felt constrained to deny it - to which he replied: "Denials are for the parents, but I'm your doctor, and you've been having a merry old time!" I see this as an instance of [Q] underestimating the intelligence of those to whom she is communicating.

I do not get the feeling that [Q] and I will ever be well suited to one another. She's a lively companion all right, and we have good fun in bed together. But I'm constantly aware how she is playing the jealousy card - making me aware how she is on the look out for other lovers, and evidently finding them as well. But worse than that, she endeavours to cover up her tracks in a manner which isn't quite clever enough. I perceive when I am being told only half truths, and am able to fill in the missing pieces - so that I come to understand how there must have been a lover in her flat on a particular evening, even though I only find myself deducing this from other evidence. But it offends me that she supposes I'm dumb enough for her to be able to pull the wool over my eyes. As with her doctor, she's underrating my basic intelligence. And inasmuch that I do realize how these kind of things are happening, it diminishes my desire to develop any real closeness with her. On the other hand who can blame her for behaving as she does, when I have made it so plain to her that our relationship is nothing permanent?

On Wednesday I was wanting to hear some news about [Y], so I rang up [F] and asked her out to lunch. It wasn't a very subtle move on my part, hoping that I might rely upon [F] to arrange something that might bring [Y] and I back together again. And she knew damn well what I was up to. She even invited me to come and stay at [G] next weekend, giving me reason to hope that [Y] might come to be invited there as well - in spite of the fact that her present guest-list only included the names of Tatiana O and Polly Grant. But I was seizing upon any hope, no matter how small. Seeing how [Y] has plans to go and live in Kitzbühl for a while, this might well be the last opportunity which might present itself for us to be reconciled prior to her return.

At the same time [F] was doing her best not to encourage me into supposing that any reconciliation is possible. She told me how in her opinion, [Y] isn't capable of falling in love with anybody: that the only person that she is at all in love with is her brother. She once told [F] that she'd no intention of causing any scandal to her mother until she was twenty-five - after which date she'd probably become a Lesbian. And I have to admit that it would seem quite in character if she did!

Once it had become apparent to me that [F]'s tactic was far more to persuade me to give up any thought of reconciliation with [Y], than to be setting those wheels in motion, I felt that I was slipping into a depression. And the depression set in even deeper as the time for the weekend approached - to an extent that I eventually rang [F] back to say that I'd only be coming for the Saturday night, which was a bit rude of me, I suppose.

I am going to pieces and making a complete fool of myself. After phoning [F] to tell her that I'd only be coming for the Saturday night, I got back to thinking that I must engineer it so that [Y] would after all be invited to [G]. But it really was a case of throwing all pride overboard in having to phone [F] with such a request. She was sweet about the whole business, but also quite clearly embarrassed by my request, since it seems that [Y] had already declined this invitation, on the grounds of being involved in some other weekend party. But she promised to have another try, and would ring me back if she succeeded.

Over the next half hour, I awaited her call in abject misery. But it slowly dawned on me that she must have failed. And once I had grown to accept this thought, I felt a lot calmer. But I can't say that I'm currently in a healthy frame of mind. If this is love, then I can only hope to dispense with it completely throughout my entire lifetime.

The [G] weekend turned out to be more enjoyable than I'd been expecting. As far as occupations were concerned, I spent the time between playing chess and Monopoly, reading Leibnitz, and conversing about all and sundry.

It was on Saturday evening that Ian Rankin rang [F], while I was sitting in earshot. And I was able to glean a fair amount of what was being said from the little snippets which I heard her say. For example, she said: "Oh damn you! So it's your fault." Then it seems that she was submitted to some questions which she couldn't answer in my presence - something about being required to explain what it was that he had done wrong. I heard her say: "Well it was really more a case of what might have been." Then he must have asked who she had staying with her. And in that she featured me at the head of her list, while putting some meaning into her voice, she was telling him all that he wanted to know.

I then gathered that [Y] herself had been transferred to the phone, and after they had been chatting for a while, I heard [F] exclaim brightly: "Oh, so you are going to spend next weekend at Job's Mill?" And [F] told me later that Bendor was also staying with Ian, and that he too had been invited to Job's Mill - by Christopher of course, whose motivations in this whole business remain obscure. I mean it could be that he is genuinely trying to arrange something that might be of benefit to me. Or it could be that he's up to no goodness at all, in trying to play his own advantage in these matters.

The curious part is that if Christopher is indeed attempting to promote my own reconciliation with [Y], he has chosen a wrong date for it, since I shall be returning to Oxford next weekend. But of course he may not have known this. Anyway I'd best give him the benefit of the doubt. It would be nice to think that he was endeavouring to restore some friendship to our relationship, before he finally emigrates to America.

I keep returning in my mind to the question of whether [Y] is truly worth all the suffering that she creates, and whether a relationship with her could ever be expected to produce happiness. I'm really telling myself that I'd be well advised to cut my losses and shed all thought of her from my system. But the idiocy is that I don't heed my own advice - because I'm in love with her, which turns me into an irrational being. I keep telling myself that the whole situation might change, which is just stupid of me. But that's how I am, within this present frame of mind.