On Friday Thomas S had invited me over to dinner, and to come early so as to meet Basil Fielding and his family - cousins of ours - who were coming over for a drink. They turned out to be rather nice. And their daughter Chloe is most attractive, even if she didn't have very much to say for herself.

Caroline and David were there. They are awful. They have put out a story that I bought my flick-knife to stab Christopher, when he next attempts to steal any of my girlfriends. What is more Caroline insists that this is precisely what I told her I would do. And judging from her expression, one might really suppose that she believes this to be the truth.

In point of fact Christopher himself was at this party. And the situation between the two of us is now quite comical. If I am dancing with [N] when he approaches, I spring back from her as if she had an electrical charge. But Chris for his part is anxious not to give the impression that he is trying to take away from me someone with whom I might be dancing. Therefore at the sight of one another, we both reach for a different dancing partner - leaving poor [N] to fend for herself. And where [Y] was concerned, we both appeared equally reluctant to be seen approaching her. Or I did catch sight of him chatting with her just once, but he ceased doing so the instant he observed that I was looking in their direction.

At times when I am feeling miserable about the way my relationship with [Y] has gone so sadly wrong, there is an additional sadness in my heart that I no longer have someone with whom I can discuss all these matters in a spirit of full candour. There was a time (long ago) when I did have such a relationship, and that was with Caroline. I felt in those days before I went to school that I could tell her anything, and that her assessment of the situation would somehow be correct and comforting. Being able to open myself to her like that however, was all a part of the relationship being what it then was.

Now I do sometimes feel that it could be revived in a more adult form, where we fully confided in each other. But we both need to accept that we have grown a long way apart since those days of our youth, and her being married to David hardly helps me to suppose that I might recreate anything similar to the relationship I had with her in bygone days. Caroline's loyalty today is towards her circle of society friends, and there is little role for a younger brother to play within her life. So I do know in my heart that she could never again match up to the requirements for this manner of relationship. For example, I know that nowadays I could never trust her with secrets. I daresay that I never should have felt that I could, but the point is that I thought I could at the time. Caroline never did regard me as her equal, and she only ever offered me lesser rights. But it is a relationship of equality that I'd be seeking today, and I rather think that she'd shock me with what I discovered to be on offer if we were actually to put it to the test.

Perhaps the real significance of my former relationship with Caroline is that she now furnishes a role model for what I regard as desirable in female companionship. Indeed, I think it's true to say that I am perceiving such potential in [Y]. And even if I eventually marry someone else, it could well turn out that I am attracted to her because I discover that I can recreate a relationship of that nature.

I am getting very excited about your Christmas visit. Don't fail to bring out my jodhpurs, and a small parcel of silk stockings which Beryl will be sending to you.

Life is really fascinating here. My latest contact has been with a charming young smuggler, who reminds me rather of Christopher. He says he's only doing it for fun - ex-navy, about 28 - but he has got himself in an awful mess, and yesterday got his boat impounded. He now has a policeman living on board, watching him....

There have been tremendous celebrations for the return of the exiled Sultan - a feast of the throne which went on for five days - the Arabs wild with joy, marching round the town singing extraordinary patriotic songs, one of which has a chorus which sounds like "Fizzy Coca-cola", and with the women charging about in packs, doing the traditional "Eu-eu-eu-ing" cry. It's supposed to excite the men in love and war, but it sounds like a lot of banshees wailing their school song.

Every house and shop was decorated, and all the branches of the poor palm trees were torn off to make triumphal arches. Then there was a tea party outside our house, which went on for three days. Xan and I were asked, and we were stuck on a platform with all the Arab elders, and with a native band. We had to eat macaroons and drink mint tea in front of a gaping crowd of Moors. We were the only Europeans in sight.

I have now seen Christopher for perhaps the last time for quite some while. And I'm pleased to say that it would seem as if we are now on friendly terms - although I still don't trust him! But I'm glad that he's going abroad. The proximity hasn't been good for either of us. And by the time that we next meet, I'm hoping that I'll have made it up with [Y], and have a settled relationship with her, (whatever that might entail!) But I anticipate that this will make me feel more secure within my own skin, and therefore less vulnerable to any uncertainties with which a brother might inflict me. So it could well be that from this date evermore, we shall develop our relationship as good friends. At any rate I hope so, since I hate having to regard him as an enemy.

When I first heard this, I felt furious with Christopher on the grounds that he was obviously up to his old tricks - waiting until he knew that I'd be back at Oxford, and then promptly arranging for her to come and stay. But I have run into Chris since then, and he registered what struck me as genuine surprise - one might even say that he was perturbed - to hear that I'd no longer be at home. So I remain totally uncertain what he may have been intending. And I suppose I'm stuck with my uncertainty until such a time as we meet one another again, and are perhaps able to discuss such matters more openly.

I was surprised to see how well [W] seemed to be getting on with Dad. And he shocked me slightly by the extent that he was agreeing with Dad's authoritarian concepts of political power. I was unsure whether [W] was taking that line to ingratiate himself with Dad, or whether his views might be far more right wing than he has ever previously admitted to me. And he was knocking the drink back too, which I have found that he is apt to do, to conceal his social unease (as I suspect.)

Towards the end of dinner however, something got into me and (as I see it now) I may have been goading Dad with cause to suppose that [W] and I might be established in a homosexual relationship. I was employing an occasional camp phrase, such as I've actually heard on [W]'s own lips before now - phrases like: "Oh you are naughty to put that kind of an argument, [W]."

It's difficult to be clear in my own mind as to what was motivating me in all this. I could see Dad's reaction to such talk from out of the corner of my eye, and I was aware that it was jolting his innermost sensitivities. But it was utterly ridiculous for me to be doing this, since I've no real wish for him to suppose that I'm queer. Yet I was enjoying the uncertainty that I was instilling into his thoughts. And I might well ask why this should be so. Could it be that I seek some manner of restitution against the way he himself seeks to emasculate me? But that in itself is a ridiculous thought. It could be that I need a ridiculous thought to explain my ridiculous behaviour.

I would have loved to hear what Dad may have had to say about [W], after we had set off on the return journey to Oxford. I have to admit that it amuses me somewhere deep down inside if he's worrying about me developing into a homosexual. All that straight-laced patterning of our lives throughout my entire upbringing would be shown up as such a waste - by his standards - if I were to turn out to be such a person. In some ways it would be like rubbing his nose in the shit of his own creation - a matter of bringing home to him how he brought us up all wrongly from the start. But I don't think I mean any of that really seriously. It's just my feeble method of poking fun at him - getting him to feel some of the potential disturbance that lurks for ever somewhere deep inside me.

Hugh Lawson was up at Oxford to attend the Grid dance, and called in to see me, during the process of which he was commenting on my recent paintings - the ones I did while I was in Italy. But he went on to say that he'd been to over to Job's Mill on Guy Fawkes night - along with Richard S and Aunt Kate - and the subject of my work as an artist had cropped up. Apparently Dad had said that he was very worried about me because I wouldn't consider taking up a serious job. He had declared that he knew for himself that I couldn't paint, and that since my mother had told him that I couldn't write, he was despairing for my future. He had concluded that nothing was likely to bring me to my senses unless I began to starve. And he regretted that he'd handed over too much money to me for that kind of pressure to take effect.

The point which really chilled me when I came to think about what had been said, is that Mum should have been so dismissive to him concerning my potential as a writer. For the truth of the matter is that I only embarked upon this road in that I was identifying more closely with her artistic and literary talents, than I finally did with Dad's personality - after I had perceived the rigidity in all that he stands for, and just how unsympathetic he really is to the full body of human values. And I feel that I have come this far along that road due to the encouragement that Mum has given me. But I now learn that she doesn't believe in me any more - if she ever did. And that does bring me up sharp on the query of whether my own faith in myself can ever be truly justified.

To tell the truth I'm not sure if my relationship with Mum can ever be quite the same again. Not that I can blame her for making such a remark to Dad. But it comes as a shock that she actually thinks that way. I need to appreciate that she's no longer the mother nurturing me to develop within the pattern of her own identity, in contrast to the other half. But she's now the wife of someone else completely different again - even more literary than herself. And she cannot see her way to carry me with her (as excess baggage) as she strives to create for herself that fresh sense of unity within a new lifestyle. I need to register these points so that I do not stand to become vulnerable when I perceive them, sniping at me within future conversations.

The worst part is that this comes at a time when I am due to go out and stay with Mum and Xan in their new house in the Casbah at Tangier. It's all been arranged, and I can't get out of it now. But I can't say that I relish the thought of going there when I know that this is what they feel about me. I am bound to feel defensive on the whole subject of my identity while I am out there with them.

It somehow seems obvious to me that I am approaching the time when I'll need to make a break with Mum. The requirement that I should learn how to believe in myself calls for ruthless action, if I should find that to be necessary. Of course I still feel warmly towards her, but I can't have her blocking my path of personal development by taking a negative attitude to what I am striving to do with myself. If I find that this is to be the case, then I'll just have to cut loose from her. And it could well be that this will initiate the liberty of spirit that I am still lacking.

I have also taken note that, when the subject of [W] cropped up, I could sense a reserve similar to the one that I encounter when he is talking about [Y]. Dad said something about him being brainy, but "an ugly little fellow". And it struck me that he wouldn't have seen any reason to add that comment on [W]'s looks, unless he felt there was some danger of me having a sexual affair with him. It might be said that I only have myself to blame for such an outcome, in that I have been goading him quite recently with reason for such a suspicion. Even so, I don't like it at all. I wish that he could perceive without any shadow of doubt in his mind that he has a perfectly normal heterosexual for a son - instead of permitting such doubts concerning my identity to fester within his mind.

On Friday the Grahames arrived to stay the weekend at Job's Mill. With Pauline being the daughter of David Tennant, (and therefore a half-sister of both Georgia and Biblet,) she really qualifies as one of our family nowadays, I suppose. I recognize that there is a vibrant vivacity in her, and she is concerned to scintillate for someone or other's benefit. But I am painfully aware how I do not personally fall into the category of person for whom she desires to put herself to such effort. She does not regard me as someone whom there might be sufficient purpose to woo. I am merely an intruding figure somewhere (like herself) on the periphery of that circle. And I resent the lack of importance that she attributes to me.

On the other hand Dad is indeed one of those for whom Pauline is tailoring her act. And it may be equally true that Dad tailors his own performance for her benefit too. I get the impression that much of what is said over the Job's Mill dining-table arises as something which follows on from things they have discussed beforehand, when I've not been around. And I suspect that some of their talk had been on the subject of the defects in my own character. Therefore I noted how they latched on to particular criticisms of me, as if those had been agreed as the abuse to throw against me.

Some of it was absurdly heavy-handed - like this unsubtle hint of Dad's that I'm a closet queen. It was stated at the dinner table in front of all his guests. And we were talking about homosexuality in general - with myself venturing a few psychological explanations for such development. But it always enrages Dad when I start talking in terms of psychological explanation. He seems to think that I'm trying to bamboozle him with trumped up knowledge from fake experts. But that doesn't excuse him for being so deliberately offensive in his manner of reply, which went something like this.

"Oh yes, we all know about queers. And let me tell you this. There are some who pretend that they're nothing of the sort, and they think they've got us fooled. But they haven't! I can tell you that for sure!"

He had been drinking of course, but no more heavily than usual. What he just doesn't perceive however is the extent that his comments, when he's feeling released from all inhibition as a result of drink, can be truly painful. He doesn't stop to think. He just says what's lurking at the back of his mind. And there's a bullying streak in him too, which delights in the discomfort of others. I wasn't going to let him perceive that he'd got me on a sore subject. I just smiled as if he were saying absurdities. But the silence from all the others who were present denoted that they understood clearly enough just what it was that Dad was implying.

The trouble with us both in situations of this kind is that we comprehend that we have mounted the stage for battle, and even though we continue conversing in what may appear to be a friendly fashion, we are each then seeking the opportunity to make remarks which might wound the other - or in my case to wound him without being overtly rude, that is to say. But my big complaint is that Dad fights dirty. He hits below the belt. Or perhaps it's just that no one has ever instructed him properly concerning where the belt is worn.

So the dinner continued with each of us now eager to throw a verbal punch, if the opportunity presented itself. And with the wine still loosening our tongues, it wasn't long that we had to wait - even if the flare-up came on an issue that was utterly trivial. We were talking about the exhibition in London where the dolls' house from Longleat is currently on display. And I said something to the effect that Dad ought to put a card beside it accrediting Mrs Gill for all the work she has put in, decorating the interior and making dresses for the dolls. My reason for suggesting it was that I felt it would give her some incentive to continue with this task. But for some reason Dad took it as if I were telling him how to run his own business, and he flared.

He shouted at me that I could fucking well phone the exhibition myself, instead of telling him to do this and that. But now that he was yelling at me, I yelled back. He has got to see that I'm too old to be treated so dismissively. He has got to learn to listen to what I say, and then to treat it as an adult statement which might well be of some value to him. But in flaring myself, it's possible that I do sound too arrogant. I was shouting that I didn't need his permission to do what I thought I should; and yes, I had every intention of phoning the exhibition - whether or not he wanted me to do so. "Yes I know you will," he was screaming: "because you're a bore - a bore - a bore!"

The choice of that word, somewhat out of context, indicated to me that this was another of the words of abuse that he had been rehearsing in this company, with a view to throwing such a charge at me in their presence. Perhaps it was a word that had been suggested to him by Pauline, as an apt description for myself. Or if it was his own thought, then I think his idea must have been that I'm for ever coming up with abstruse arguments which nobody understands. But he was here making the charge, (which had been kept ready and waiting, no doubt,) within a context that hardly merited it. And he was trembling all over with rage, as he glared at me down the table while continuing to pronounce this word which he assumed I would find so destructive. But I replied quite neatly: "I always thought that a bore should be defined as a person who keeps repeating himself!"

The shaft sank home, and Dad looked exasperated. Then he slammed his glass down upon the table and got up, muttering that it was time for him to go to bed. There was an outcry of protest from all his guests, and Virginia was pleading with him to sit down again. I appreciated immediately that there could only be one solution. So I quickly got up, murmuring: "No Dad, you stay." And it was myself who withdrew from the table and drove back home to Longleat.

But I certainly wasn't feeling pleased with myself as a result of this confrontation. There was something too hurtful about the whole business. And the terrible thing is that my relationship with Dad does seem to be evolving in this unpleasant direction. As I see it, I've got to stand up to him until he learns to treat with me like an adult. He mustn't be allowed to get away with dismissive or offensive remarks. But I can see no sign that he's going to change his ways. He is convinced that he can reshape me into some very different person. And I've got to resist that line of thought to the very end - even if it does entail a destruction of the relationship as it stands.

Or perhaps I shouldn't be quite so ready to dismiss the charge which he threw at me. I mean, perhaps I should consider the possibility that I do bore the likes of Dad and his friends. There may indeed be some truth in the idea that I go into too much detail when I am discussing things - because it is the detail which often interests me. But if this bores them, then it's just one more reason why I've got to escape from the restrictive circle of his brand of society. I'm simply not cut out for it. But God knows if I'll ever manage to find a circle that might suit me any better.

When I next saw Dad (on Sunday evening), there was no trace whatsoever that he had felt any anger with me the other day. That is one most admirable quality of his - a lack of resentment. He may flare up in the most unreasonable fashion, but he cools down just as quickly. Perhaps I should strive to be more like him in that way. But it seems to me that when I take issue about anything, I do so with good reason. And these are issues which need to be resolved. I can't just turn my back on them, pretending that they'd never arisen in the first place. There are indeed matters which need to be settled between my father and myself before we can hope to come as close to each other as we probably both desire.

I flew out to Gibraltar on the Thursday night, but the flight got held up at Madrid for most of the night, due to the wind being in the wrong direction for landing at Gibraltar. So I finally got there on Friday afternoon, to find a message at the airport to say that Mum was waiting for me at the Rock Hotel, where we spent an additional night - going on to take the ferry to Tangier next morning. I was beginning to feel very tired by this time, and my eye was beginning to twitch. But this may in part have been due to the strain of preparing myself to adapt to whatever my new relationship with my mother might be.

Mum and Xan have bought a delightful little house near the entrance of the Casbah, where one small window actually peeps over the outer wall. They seem delighted with their find, and already feel themselves to be an integral part of the expatriate Anglo-Saxon community, which plays quite a considerable role within this Moslem (but thoroughly international) city. There is little pretence of it being anything other than a Moorish house in terms of its interior decor, which makes it a delightful contrast to the houses where Mum has previously dwelt - like Sturford Mead, or Cowrie. This is a different phase in her life, and I like it that way. But they have their problems - like endeavouring to buy their acceptance from the swarm of children in the neighbourhood by showering them with sweets - a policy which they may one day regret if the grasping little hands become too demanding. But that's all for the future of course.

My immediate impression of life as I see it in Tangier is the normality of abnormality. I have never seen anything quite like it before. And it would seem that in this environment, Englishmen have the reputation for being queer. Perhaps it is because people of such a disposition back home feel restricted on the extent to which they can live out such a lifestyle, so emigrate in their droves to these more tolerant shores. And Mum tells me that Arabs don't think twice about having such relationships, as something adjacent to the family life, which involves the cloistering of their womenfolk. But when away from the family home, they feel free to indulge themselves in whatever fashion they please.

For the most part Mum and Xan look after themselves within their Casbah house, but they do have quite a pretty Arab maid, called Haymo, who giggles at absolutely everything while being determined to be of the utmost use to everyone the whole time. Mum is still uncertain how to take it when Haymo insists on assisting her to remove (or to put on) her bust-bodice, if she needs to change her clothes. It's almost as if she expects to be invited to become one of the family, in that rather intimate respect - or even sexually perhaps. And I'm told that she does have a small child of her own - after being divorced - then living with a European man, and then subsequently with a European woman in a Lesbian relationship.

There was one hilarious scene when I was accompanying Mum to the market, but had got separated from her. Then some veiled woman came up and started tugging at my sleeve, and speaking very quickly in a fashion that I didn't quite follow. But it made me nervous in that I didn't want to get myself into trouble for taking advantage of someone's veiled wife, and also cautious that she might be asking me for alms - which was happening all the time. So I was trying to free myself and to shoo her away. But the more I shooed, the more she chattered, becoming all excited - then suddenly lowering her veil for an instant to reveal that it was Haymo. I felt so silly after all the fuss that I'd been making. And all she'd wanted was to make some enquiry about what to buy at the market.

There was a certain absence of available young women upon this scene. There would have been an exciting sex life available to me if I'd been looking for a relationship with a man, or even with some married woman. But it didn't seem much of a hunting ground for available young girls. Or not ones who were truly available. Well there was a young starlet in Carol Reed's party, called Eunice Gayson, who was certainly beautiful, but was hardly concerned to be seen getting chatted up by a mere undergraduate. And there was Carol Reed's step-daughter, Tracey Pelissier, who was delightfully forward and eager to seem fully adult. But I realized that I'll have to wait awhile when someone informed me that she's only fourteen! And both Hughlin Dunlop and Virginia Meakin were somewhat on the young side for me as well. I think I shocked them a little when they came up for Mum's couscous party on Christmas Eve, because I was drinking rather more than that to which they themselves are accustomed.

Mum seems to be totally in her element in Tangier, within a scene which consists of a never-ending succession of parties. I daresay it reminds her of the mid-twenties, when she was at the front of social attention as an outrageous young debutante. And she puts me to shame with her party stamina - never tiring until long after I'm exhausted - responding conversationally to no matter whom that fortune may present her. Much as I feel myself similar to her in terms of personality, I know that I fall far short of her level when it comes to scintillating at a party.

Typical of the evenings was when they took me out to dinner at a restaurant called `The 1001 Nights'. It is a fascinating place, run by Brian Gyson, where you are feasted in best Moroccan style, while a boy dressed up as a woman dances in the centre floor space. Then after the dinner we all smoked kiff, which is basically a form of hashish. On this occasion I limited myself to about eight puffs, because I'd never smoked it before. The sensation was mildly pleasant, although I still find it difficult to habituate myself to the feeling of smoke going down into my lungs - which makes it improbable that I'll ever get hooked on any of these habits.

There was another evening when we went to a place called the `Bar el Chico', where there were a couple of male customers who spent much of the evening dancing Flamenco together, in a manner which seemed quite excellent. Mum identified one of them as being the owner of the local male brothel, while his dancing partner she referred to as being the Siss-pot. (And he was indeed very feminine.) Mum herself was in sparkling form. By 04.00 hrs however, my own spirits had begun to flag, so that I readily accepted the offer of a lift back home from Jay Hazlewood - leaving Mum having a gay old time with Peter Mayne, since Xan had stayed at home. But on our way to the car, we were surrounded by young Arabs trying to sell us things. And I caught one of them trying to slip his hand into my coat pocket, and since they were still thronging round me when I was trying to climb into the car, I gave one of them a push - to which he responded by kicking out at me. And they were still trying to open the door again, after I'd slammed it shut. I cannot say that I find the Arabs to be a sympathetic race.

It also unnerved me to find how openly I was getting accosted in the streets by Arabs, as if they regarded me as sexually available. In fact I almost made a fool of myself on one occasion. I had been sitting in a cafe with an Arab who knows Mum, and whom she has since identified as a notorious homosexual pimp - called Jimmy. But he was being very pleasant to me, and when I told him about my recent experience of smoking kiff, he began pinching my cheek saying: "You naughty boy!"

Well I daresay that others who knew of his profession had observed me sitting there with Jimmy, and had perhaps even noted that he was pinching my cheek. Anyway I had just left the cafe and was walking back up the street, when an elderly Arab who was sitting on a bench called out to me, but there was something cheeky about his manner, so I walked on. Then a little way further down the road, it struck me that he was treating me with disrespect, so I felt angered and wanted to see if he'd do it again when I walked back down the street a second time.

I had no clear idea in my head about what I should do if he did. And sure enough he was calling out to me as I approached. So I asked him what the hell he wanted. He was cackling with laughter, and began patting the bench beside him, indicating that I should sit down. He was wearing a red fez, and I felt a strong urge to knock it off his head, in some manner of retort to his insulting attitude. But I realized how such a gesture might escalate into an embarrassing incident. So I just flounced off without doing anything at all - feeling that I had lost face all round. But when I recounted the episode to Mum and Xan, they were in fits of laughter, saying that Arabs get up to these antics the whole time, and the old man would have been enormously offended if I'd knocked off his fez.

The man who stands at the centre of many activities involving the Anglo-Saxon community is David Herbert - Lord Pembroke's younger brother, so his childhood was spent at Wilton House. He now lives up on the high ground, just outside Tangier, with Jamie Kaffrey, his culturally refined American friend, and we were lunching with them nearly every day. It seems that David is taking Mum and Xan under his wing. But if it was myself, I know that I'd quickly weary of the atmosphere they all find so necessary within this environment, where everyone is perpetually required to prove that they are accomplished performers within an unending round of party games. David and Jaimie were quite convincing incidentally, in their spontaneous acts of ballet dancing. And they could be funny too. But it all gets tedious after a while.

David took us on a variety of sight-seeing expeditions, the most exciting of which was an overnight trip up into the mountains to see Chouen. I enjoyed trying out my skills at bargaining for trinkets in their market place - just as much as the experience was evidently enjoyed by the individual merchants. And the spectacular scenery would have furnished me with superb subjects for a painting holiday. But that will have to be for another occasion. And from the little I saw, I merely came to understand how much more time would have been needed to get a full savour of what Morocco might really be like.

If I was hoping that I'd be free from all attention from the gossip-columnists on those far shores, I soon found it was not to be. There were a couple of young Americans who came sidling up to me at one of the parties we attended, whom I didn't realize to be columnists on the Tangier Gazette until after they'd got me talking about the recent piece about me in the Sunday Express. And by then it was too late to disentangle myself. They told me how they had already inserted their own version of that item. "We couldn't pass up your quote about looking forward to going horse-riding up in the mountains." (I believe it's one of the expressions that Nancy Mitford would regard as indicative of unaristocratic vocabulary.) They went on to try and place comments in my mouth, like a statement that Torremolinos is now the most fashionable of places to savour the night life - when in reality I have no personal knowledge of such subjects. So God knows what they might print concerning our conversation.

I suppose it's because I'm currently moping over the lack of any satisfactory development in my relationship with [Y], that I constantly found her in my thoughts. And I was noticing it immediately when other women who resembled her in some way, immediately sparked in me a sense that I'd like to know that woman better. There were two in particular who triggered this response - Elizabeth Teague and Janey Bowles - both of them married incidentally. But I felt as if I'd established a rapport with them.

I found Janey Bowles quite fascinating, in a manner that is almost unworldly. I was chatting with Janey B at Mum's couscous party for quite some while. And then afterwards, as we were making our way down to the market place to see the Christmas Eve celebrations, she took my arm - partly because she has a limp and finds it difficult to walk. But there was an emotional closeness about it too. And I noted that Paul was looking a bit put out about this.

We had in fact got left behind all the others in this descent. Jay Hazlewood had been with us at the start, but he suddenly turned back. It was then that Paul B came back to join us, and enquired where Jay had gone - to which Janey replied that he had turned back. and I heard Paul murmur to her that he wasn't surprised. "He probably saw that he wasn't wanted." I think this must have been some indication that he was reproaching her with trying to get off with me. So am I to suppose that he was displaying jealousy? This made me feel uncomfortable, and I was more cautious about trying to make any conversation with Janey after that.

Another slightly embarrassing point was that Janey pays quite a lot of attention to Mum, who is aware and much flattered by it. It was really quite funny to watch the way she was responding to Janey's attentions - preening herself quite literally under the other's regard. I feel sure that Mum would take quite easily to a bisexual mode of life. Nor would I mind it if she did.

At all these parties we were attending, it seems that there was little inhibition against taking drugs. Nor was it just a question of smoking kiff. There were some people eating a kind of jam which they call mahjoun, and is apparently made from a whole variety of ingredients which includes hashish. I thought it wisest for me to decline the latter, after watching the effect it had on people like Brian Gyson. Not that it looked unpleasant. He was just sitting on the floor in a helpless fit of giggles. But I confined myself to a little further experimentation with kiff, which was an experience I found most enjoyable.

Mum gets her stuff from Ahmed Yakubi, the local builder who has made quite a few alterations to her house. He probably does good business with the European community in a whole variety of different small ways, joking with everyone about his liking for a glass of wine which is regarded as more reprehensible within Islamic culture then marijuana, it seems. But Ahmed indicates that all these things are done in private, although not in public. He is the first Moroccan that I've met who might easily pass as a European - a Greek or Jugoslavian perhaps - if he were dressed in our attire.

There were several occasions when I tried smoking some of Ahmed's home-made kiff - on one occasion it was more than a whole cigarette - inhaling the whole time. And I should stress again how I do find it very difficult to take smoke down into my lungs, since I am not really in the habit of doing this on the few occasions when I find myself smoking a tobacco cigarette. But I found the effect quite surprising, making me feel as if my thoughts had risen lethargically into a bubble just a few inches above my head - almost like the thought bubbles that are drawn in strip cartoons. The clarity and precision of my thoughts may have been much diminished, becoming veiled in a comfortable mist. But I was feeling pleasantly detached from the situation where I found myself, and no longer finding it necessary - or perhaps it was just more difficult - to make conversation.

The ability to concentrate was lessened, but this didn't seem to matter. I found myself lapsing into a calm state of contemplation which lasted for approximately an hour. It was enjoyable just to sit there, watching others converse and without feeling myself under social obligation to participate myself within those conversations. But the self-consciousness was somehow still there - to an extent that I was perpetually glancing round to take note of those (like Mum) who were talking about me. But I daresay that's just an indication of the underlying traits of paranoia within my personality. It was a very different experience to drinking alcohol, and the paranoia displays itself here in a far less dangerous form - meaning that I saw no prospect of kiff making me feel aggressive towards anybody.

They all comment on how the atmosphere in Tangier is becoming unpleasantly Nationalist - which means that Europeans step out of line at their own peril. One of Mum's friends is a Spanish homosexual artist called Jorge Jantus, who constantly wanders round the Arab quarter in search for young boys. Periodically he gets himself beaten up in these activities, or getting warned on his behaviour by the unofficial police, who patrol such areas. Jorge had invited us all to a mahjoun and kiff party one evening. But there was no answer when we went to knock on his door, so we had to retrace our steps feeling somewhat put out. Later on the full story emerged. He had been found wandering in the Arab quarter by one of these unofficial Nationalist policemen, who had advised him to go home, even accompanying him to his door. But in the process they were becoming increasingly matey, so that they ended up in bed together. And as we were subsequently informed, they were still celebrating when we'd arrived for the party which never came to be.

While there may have been a dearth of young women from my own particular age-group, there were quite a number from the group just younger than myself - the children of those Europeans who have houses here. And Hughlin Dunlop invited me along to one such party, which was in the Crichton-Stewart house - up in the Casbah and not far distant from Mum's, but far larger of course. The parents had gone out for the day, after locking away all the alcohol. So Mum and Xan were referring to this as a children's party. But Hughlin smuggled in a bottle of whiskey, which I had mainly to myself, and since I was drinking this on top of the Dexamyl tablets that I'd already been given by Mum (in order to compensate for my hangover), I was soon in swinging form.

Perhaps too much so. Anyway I was in a mood to make passes at any attractive woman who might confront me. And I almost did so when I espied the attractive Spanish maid, who was standing by a door watching the proceedings when `the children' arranged for us all to play `Murder' - with the lights out of course. But when blundering my way across the room to where I could still perceive her outline, I managed to trip over some furniture, and fell.

Even so, I managed to disgrace myself in this company, once the lights had been switched back on again, by indulging in conversational subjects which were regarded as too lewd - talking about Lesbian life, and the prospect of them all losing their virginities. And my host, who couldn't have been much older than Valentine, was passing a comment or two which might indicate that he found I was becoming tiresome. So I eventually said: "Well if I'm giving offence, then I'd best leave" - which I did. But there was a final point which still teases my curiosity, in that as I walked up the street from their house, I heard steps following me. I deliberately refrained from turning my head. And the steps then desisted. So I'll never know whether it was my young host running after me in an attempt to apologize, or (a delightful fantasy no doubt) that I was being followed out by the Spanish maid.

There was in fact one faint possibility for a romance which emerged as a result of us being invited to lunch with Mr Halot, the Belgian Consul in Tangier. And he went to the trouble of finding someone whom he thought appropriate for me. This was an attractive young American girl called Lillian Carter, although we simply didn't have a sufficient opportunity to discover whether we might really like one another. I did find her rather too much on the earnest side, and too insistent upon pursuing subjects with an aura of culture. But I was hoping that she might lighten up if I took her out to dinner during the time that remained to me, although it finally proved too difficult to find an appropriate slot within my crowded schedule.

With only one evening left, I finally had to settle for taking her out in the company of both Mum and Xan - which was a formula which didn't show any prospect of success from the moment we sat down. For by that time we were all riding our little hobby-horses of disgruntled complaint towards each other, which didn't lend itself to me conducting any manner of courtship on the side. So despite her intentions to be seeing a lot of Europe over the coming year, we don't have any plans to meet again if it should happen that she turns up in London.

Despite there being the occasional niggly outburst towards the end, I did find myself growing closer to Mum in spirit over this week and a half - although her thought patterns are too feminine for me to adopt as my own. And her manipulation of logic often strikes me as absurd. But it has been useful for me to perceive her within this novel setting, since it has brought her vivacity and her exuberance into clearer focus. And I do perceive quite clearly the parts of me which are genetically derived from herself - which might well be the greater part. But it's also good to be able to discern the parts of me which derive from elsewhere - a heavily serious side perhaps - although I would hesitate to say that this necessarily comes from Dad.

I'm afraid that I'm beginning to perceive where I am liable to irritate Xan, which is really that he finds me argumentative. Or it may be that, being at Oxford reading Philosophy, I am going through a phase of trying to get my arguments straightened out. I need to take issue on all manner of subjects so that I'll learn, from other peoples's reactions to the way that I converse, just where my true positions might be found. But Xan was at pains to tell me on more than one occasion that I am too competitive in my search for the truth. And I discern on his side what amounts to a flippancy on detail. He is more concerned to win an argument by proclaiming some witty falsehood, than to assist anyone to identify some plateau of truth where we might find ourselves in a position of agreement. And there's something too hard and ungiving about his whole attitude to life. I sense how there might be areas where I'd dislike him if he were to state openly what he believes. But at the same time, his counsel about life might be the best that I can currently hope to find within my family circle. So I want to befriend him.

My return flight to London was less exciting for what it actually was, than for what it missed out on being. I was intending to catch the Iberian Airways flight from Tangier to Madrid via Gibraltar on the Monday morning; and from there to pick up on a BEA Viscount which would have flown me on to London. But I had to drop this plan when they found that I had no Spanish visa. (Or I'm inclined to suspect that it could be because I neglected to produce an appropriate bribe, at the moment when I was trying to claim a seat on the plane.) But I was to read in the papers next day how this Viscount had almost crashed - a question of water getting into the fuel tanks, and then three of the four engines cutting out in mid-air, one by one. They did make a safe landing somewhere near Bordeaux, but not without the passengers supposing that they were confronted with imminent death. I know that I would have been terrified. But it's odd how, in appreciating that they did finally survive the ordeal, I begin to feel that I have missed out on a valuable experience!

Once I was back in England, I had that weekend at [O] which has previously been described, leading as it did to my receiving information that Christopher might still be endeavouring to get off with [Y]. However he was on the verge of going to work in America, which meant that the disruptions he was causing within my life might now cease for a year or so. But the relationship which remained the most precarious of all over this period was that with Henry. We had been snarling at one another shortly before I set out for Tangier, and we were soon snarling at one another again. This excerpt is taken from my journal of 10th January 1956.

I found a letter from Cecil Paynter waiting for me at Longleat - the first real news from him since the days that we were on that boxing course at the end of our National Service. So on the final Monday before returning to Oxford for the Hilary term, I invited him to come over to dinner at Job's Mill. And while I was at it, I invited John and Alice Jolliffe to come over as well, anticipating that it might prove a trifle sticky if Cecil were here on his own. And even as it was, the conversation didn't flow as easily as I might have hoped. I was finding it a considerable effort to keep the evening from flagging.

I should have mentioned that the previous evening had led to quite a lively party after dinner at Job's Mill, with us all jiving to the gramophone. And Georgia is making some rapid progress in this field. The tempo of the music was such that I eventually had to drop out - lying there on the floor gasping for breath. And what with the large meal that I'd just eaten, accompanied by a lot of wine, I suddenly realized that I was about to be sick. So I sprinted to the lavatory - just in time. I could see that I had made a bit of a mess, but I spent quite some time slooshing water over the pan in an attempt to get it clean. And I thought at the time that I'd made quite a good job of it. What remains uncertain however, is whether I was the only person to be sick that evening.

So reverting to my tale of the evening at Job's Mill when I had invited over these other guests, we had reached a point in the evening when I was trying to rekindle the lively spirit of the previous night - jiving with Georgia as before. But I was unwise enough to make some joke about having to be careful this time not to make myself sick. And Dad's face suddenly froze. With his anger mounting, he then said: "So it was you! You are the very last person that I'd suspected, but now you're confessing to it!"

I felt taken aback. It didn't occur to me that there might be two separate cases of people being sick the previous night, and I couldn't understand why he should be making such a fuss about my unfortunate accident. But he was growing fiercer and fiercer on the subject. Some thought in his mind that I had deceived him by not admitting to my offence earlier. And he was utterly convinced that an atrocious mess had been left behind, for which he was now piling the blame on myself. But he was doing so unpleasantly, in a manner that was making me lose face badly in front of the guests that I'd invited. And I'm simply not prepared to stand for such abuse from him any longer. He has got to learn to discuss his grievances about me as one adult to another, and not start shrieking at me as if I'm still a schoolboy.

I'll try to give a savour of how the exchanges went. I was saying that I didn't see what all the fuss was about - seeing that I'd cleaned up the mess. But he was now working himself up into a rage, shouting: "So he doesn't even apologize! Well let me tell you this. Go and do it in your own house, but not in mine! It's disgusting! And you certainly didn't clean up the mess." I said: "What mess?" He said: "Well just ask the servants. It's they who've been complaining. I tell you you're disgusting!"

When he's in this kind of mood, there can be very little purpose in conversing with him. He was out to bludgeon me into some manner of submission, without even trying to address himself to the issue of whether or not I'd committed a crime. And I knew from the way that the temperature was rising that the remarks he was going to fling at me would be increasingly offensive. So it would be best for me to seize the opportunity to depart - which I did. But as I did so, he shouted: "So I'm going to tell them all who did it - Donald, Mrs Marks - all of them!" I said: "There's no need. I'll be telling them myself." He said: "And I hope you'll send them a letter of apology too - enclosing a 10/- tip into the bargain!" I said: "The mess I left could have been cleaned up for tuppence." And I was now going through the door. But he shouted after me: "That's jolly stingy of you!" I ought to have retorted: "Well that's hereditary!" But I didn't think of it in time. And in any case I had now departed.

It was all rather awful. I was leaving all my guests not knowing what to do in the presence of their irate host. But it couldn't be helped. I refuse to be subjected to such an unintelligent onslaught of dogmatic abuse. He's got to realize that I'm an adult and to treat me as his equal.

The sequel to the row was, once again, quite typical of Dad. When I met him today (Tuesday) the whole issue seemed to have been forgotten, as far as he was concerned. In fact he had already sent round Algar to make his peace with me - not that there was any mention by Algar of the row that had taken place. He was coming to recapitulate on what has already been tied up by our respective lawyers, that Dad is now handing over the control of the estate to me - bar the inner circle of the park. Well I knew this already, but what Algar was really telling me is that Dad would now like him to take his orders from myself, as to the way in which the place is to be run. Not that this will make much difference I suppose. The things which need doing are perhaps evident to all of us, and there's nothing really controversial about the way in which this estate should be run.

Algar then turned to the subject of me going over to Job's Mill for my meals, which must surely indicate that Dad sees this as the time and setting for much of our recent friction. And of course he is right on that point. Algar was suggesting that it might be best for all if I employ my own domestic household at Longleat. I have indeed been angling for that solution for quite some time, so I agreed to what he was suggesting - which was in effect that he'll enquire on the estate to see if there is someone who might be interested in the job. It might be some couple of retirement age. I hardly think that the duties would be too onerous, when it's just a question of taking care of me on my own - seeing that I'm so rarely at home.

Algar also broached Dad's plans for my future - which rather surprised me, since I'd have thought this was a subject he might have preferred to take up with me in person. I suppose it must indicate that he feared the unpleasantness of the previous evening might have left too much resentment in my heart for there to be such discussion. And it's interesting to note how he may perceive that I might have reason for it.

Anyway, Algar surprised me by declaring that my father had always assumed that I might be intending to go into politics. And he suggested that I ought to offer my services doing public work, as an apprenticeship for Parliament. But that would mean that I'd have to align myself from the start with one of the existing political parties; and of course they are all assuming that I'd be a Tory. The truth of the matter however, is that I am still undecided. So to launch myself into a political career at this stage, would be out of the question.

If there were an election tomorrow, I might well throw in my support for Gaitskell - just to see how his brand of Labour government might behave. But that's far from being a definite intention. Over the long run I must expect to fall in line with the Conservatives at some stage in my life, since most of my real interests are tied up in that section of society. But I find it curious that anybody should be expected to know their own minds upon such an important issue at such an early age, for it really is something which one needs to think out quite gradually for oneself. Or perhaps they're just hoping to rush me into the Tory camp, before my rebellious instincts take me any further afield than I now am.

I had no intention of allowing myself to be bulldozed into any career that they'd been planning for me, so I told Algar that I would be going to live in Paris after I'd come down from Oxford, and that my intention was to write as well as to paint. This seemed to perturb him at the start, since it balked him from developing any further upon the theme of suggesting how I should offer my services in public work, upon the lines that he'd already submitted no doubt for Dad's approval. So Algar then opted for a more judicious line. He said he quite understood how someone with a private income of my proportions could not be expected to work for their living.

I didn't really like this line. As I see it, he and Dad are angling to make me drop any mention of painting and writing as being a form of work - as my potential profession. They will find it more acceptable if I only ever envisage it as my rich man's hobby, which will leave the door open to them persuading me to take up a serious job at some later date. Well I saw what Algar was getting at, but for the time being I had to be satisfied with the proclaimed understanding that he was expressing for my choice to be as I'd stated. They are going to accept that I strive to become a writer and a painter, much as they would prefer it if I turned my attention to politics.