I spent the first two days (after driving up to Oxford for the start of the term) reading in preparation for my two collections, which were on Saturday. I shall be interested to see how they mark them. Personally, I was quite happy about the one on Political Theory. Possibly a b++. But in the Economics paper, I wrote a lot of woffle, and should regard myself as lucky if I managed to obtain a b--.

After I'd completed my collections, Ian R challenged me to a game of chess. But we were both playing most carelessly, throwing away endless chances, and the game ended in a stalemate. I have doubts that I'll ever make a good chess player. I am far too prone to making blunders.

It has been quite a long time since I last gave a party at Oxford. I think I've only given a couple since I came up; and none at all since the 5th November 1954. But in any case the one I gave now turned out to be a huge success, and it finally ended when I had to take the decision to shoo them all out in time for dinner. Despite the convivial atmosphere however, I felt unable to get into the festive spirit. In my current state of mind, I simply cannot participate. I'm there on the fringe, just watching the merriment that may be fermenting. In any case, now that I've given my party, I should be excused from giving another until after I've taken my Finals.

I like my new philosophy tutor, who is Oscar Wood. He may not exactly be inspiring as a teacher, in that he's too shy and perhaps uncertain of himself. But he's sympathetic, and conscientious to a degree when his concern to assist me in grasping an idea is painstakingly apparent. On the negative side, it could be that his own attitude to life is vastly different to my own - possibly too conventional all round.

I got down to a lot of work on Friday. Then Ian R came round for a game of chess, which I managed to win. Then after dinner, we went round for a drink in his room. [H] was also with us, and we eventually became involved in rather too serious a philosophical discussion, over the course of which it became all too evident that I had drunk too much. At one point I was shouting in explanation of some point, and I noticed how Ian was laughing at me. I realized that I was beginning to make a fool of myself, so desisted. I am far too apt to get carried away by my line of thought, when I have been drinking.

The evening ended on a rather unhappy note. We were just leaving when Ian playfully hit [H], who retaliated by giving Ian a big thump in the balls, which sent him sprawling down the stairs. It's difficult to know if Ian may have been play-acting, but he did appear to be hurt so I helped him to his feet. He then exclaimed in a voice which was dramatically quiet: "Will you leave now, [H]; and I want you never to return to this house again." [H] left, and I have no idea how long it will take them to patch up their quarrel.

This morning Saturday, I am feeling liverish again - on account of last night's drinking. It's a menace not being able to drink anything without feeling unable to cope with life next day.

The Bullingdon elections were on Monday evening, and these became stormy by the end. Tim R was getting on my nerves from the very start by acting as if he was the Chairman of proceedings. Eventually it became a question of us each endeavouring to hold the floor by standing there in the middle of it. All a bit childish, I daresay. But it looks as if our sense of antagonism has reached this point.

The main source of controversy arose concerning the voting procedure. My purpose was to introduce a system that might be rather more democratic, while leaving a slight scope for presidential prerogative! The danger was that a particular clique - Rathbone's friends perhaps, or even Shiel's - might exercise the tactic of blackballing candidates from other cliques in the form of a block vote. So I was trying to furnish guidelines for the number of blackballs that any one person should cast against a given number of candidates. Both Shiel and Rathbone came out firmly against this idea however, and they won the vote.

Consequently it took a long time before anyone at all got elected. We had to vote changes in the rules two or three times before the situation was created when a few people were finally elected - a list which finally amounted to Michael Russell, Robin Wilson and John Jolliffe, Giles Fitzherbert and Oliver Fox-Pitt. But we were shouting at one another far too vehemently for comfort. There is some danger of the club becoming too factionalized. Shiel's group will now consist of Greenwell, Asheton, Russell, Fitzherbert and Jolliffe. Rathbone's group consists of Mowbray, Stormont-Darling, Clark, Wallace-Turner, Fox-Pitt and Wilson. And then there's my own group which includes Lucas-Tooth, Rankin, Sainsbury, Nicholls and Yorke.

The terrible thing is that I mind so much whether I am still in control of the club, in spirit, as much as being in control of its activities. And it's such a footling concern when one really comes to think about it - whether or not I remain dominant within all this positioning for power. It's not even as if I enjoy the process of such struggle, but I'm doing it because I'd so hate to lose out to someone else, whom I regard as a rival. And it can't be healthy that I mind. It's all so insignificant, in relation to anything that might be a main trend in my life. And I can't somehow manage to disengage from it, so as to focus my attention upon what might be more important in the construction of my life, and of my lifestyle.

I have a feeling that I didn't serve my own interests well in my endeavours to dominate those proceedings. I asked Tim Sainsbury afterwards, if he felt that I'd been too bossy in my conduction of them; and he replied quite simply that I had. And this was one of my closer friends speaking. So God knows how I appeared to others.

Or should I think of this as exemplifying the drive that will one day take me to the top in life? I'd like to think of it that way, but I have grave doubts on the subject. I sometimes feel that I'm striving to emerge at the summit of a hill where I don't belong. But that leaves me uncertain on where the right hill might be. It might be such a long distance from the territory which I am currently exploring. And I sometimes despair that I'll ever find it.

The elections for Loders' Club were held on Tuesday. I think Ian must have come to them, having made up his mind that he was going to get his own way in all essentials, without letting himself get bossed around by me. We very nearly had a serious row as a result of all this. Rathbone had been elected without any controversy this time. But the choice of second place was being disputed between John Jolliffe and Robin Gage. (Nicky Gage wasn't even being considered after the way he had turned us down in last year's elections for the Bullingdon.) We put it to a straight vote, and there were six for Jolliffe and three for Gage - with myself amongst the former, and Ian amongst the latter.

Eventually the margin extended to eight against one, but Ian still wouldn't give way - even after admitting that he liked John. But the voting rules require unanimity. So I then grew angry with him, saying that if he was going to be so obdurate, he could expect the same attitude from myself in any future elections. Ian flushed scarlet, and it looked for a moment as if there might be a fight. He said that if that's how things were, then we might as well start right away. But after a further half hour of discussion, he did finally capitulate. And for this, I find myself liking him a lot better - although I'm not blind to the way that he's a real trouble-maker, and unreasonably self-willed. But I think he chose to step back from the brink on realizing there was a danger of a serious breach in our friendship.

It's noticeable how the exercise of power transforms the manner in which some of my friends now regard me. And I might quote the example of [I]. It's almost a case of hero-worship. When he first came up to Oxford, I used to hear him going on about [K]'s strength of character; and it rather appeared that he was tagging along behind [K], somewhat in the role of henchman. But in the light of these recent elections, I get the feeling that he is applying to become my own henchman instead. Several times over these last few days, he has come over to sit by me in the Grid, chattering on about a whole diversity of subjects. He has even been urging me to come and stay with him next vacation, although I doubt if I'll have time for this.

Yesterday (Saturday) we had some trouble with our neighbours at Folly Bridge. I was just leaving the house that evening, to find [H], Francis N and Richard Bingham standing outside and trading insults with the people next door - although it was only after my return that I heard the full story. It seems that it was a dispute concerning the use of the parking space that all the houses on Folly Bridge have to share. But Bingham had parked his car just behind mine, leaving no room for the large American car which habitually comes to visit the house next door. It belongs to an American Serviceman who is probably courting the daughter of the house. Anyway Bingham was refusing to move his car, claiming that he had just as much right as the American to be occupying this space - which was heavily disputed by our neighbours.

I had in fact heard just a few snatches of the dispute. They were threatening [H] with reporting us all to the Proctors for making too much noise at Folly Bridge, to which [H] retorted that he'd be reporting them to the police for running their house as a brothel for American Servicemen. Someone said that he was going to report this piece of abuse to the authorities in [H]'s college. But [H] just laughed, saying that they didn't even know the name of his college. Then one of the neighbours spotted me, and exclaimed: "Well I work at Christ Church, and I know that's Lord Weymouth. I'll be going to see the Senior Censor if I'm given any more trouble." It was at this point that I made a hasty exit with my car.

By the time I returned, the dispute had switched directions, in that it was now between [H] and Richard, who were abusing each other in Francis' room. [H] was mimicking Richard's pompous phraseology, whilst Richard was citing instances of [H]'s boorishness. Then the angle changed, and [H] was trying to make out that Richard was a coward, whilst Richard was proclaiming that [H] was a queer. And both of them were trying to substantiate their accusations with evidence, so that their tempers were rising. Richard was concerned to prove he was no coward by challenging [H] to a dual, which was instantly accepted. And the choice of weapons was becoming increasingly deadly. At the start they were merely stubbing out cigarettes in each other's hands. Then they were fencing with dip pens. And finally they had agreed to meet at dawn on Monday, for a dual with real swords. What's more they sounded as if they meant it.

I went off to bed at this stage. But I could hear quite a lot of thumping and battering going on over the next half hour. So it could be that they settled for a fight instead of a dual. In any case, I expect that will be the last that any of us hear about their dispute. Things are apt to look different in the clear light of morning.

I enjoyed my Philosophy essay for this week - on the subject of Parenthetic verbs. It surprised me to find that semantics can be so interesting. And I'm feeling an increased liking for Oscar Wood, whose concern to clarify a subject is quite heart-warming. He shook me a trifle by saying that by my present standard, I might be safe for a Third, but if I cut out my tendency to talk in general terms, I might rise a class. This wobbles my conviction that I might be safe for a Second - with some glimmer of hope that I might rise to the class higher still. But it could be that he's just trying to spur me on to greater efforts by the low grade that he predicts for me. I can but wait and see!

There was a Society dinner was on Monday evening, and I was seated next to Hugh Trevor-Roper. He told me that he had just returned from Brussels, where he had met Roy Harrod at the house of Alain Camu. The subject of his pupils (those who will be taking their Finals this year) cropped up. Alain had enquired which of us were the brightest, and I'm told that Roy saw fit to name myself - along with someone else whom I've never actually met. This comes as quite a boost to my ego.

The latter part of the evening didn't run quite so smoothly, and I'm feeling miffed with John Jolliffe. But I'd best start at the beginning of the story. John is the Society Secretary, but he was damn incompetent on this occasion. He sent out all the invitations far too late, neglected to send them to the complete list of members, and then just assumed people wouldn't be coming when they were. So he'd messed up the entire evening by his incompetence. All that to one side however, he then went on to drive me up the wall by allotting himself the role of `President's Prompter'. He had come to sit beside me at the head of the table for the elections, and proceeded to keep telling me what to do. I suspect he was doing this on purpose, so as to rattle me, or just to amuse the others. But he was driving me mad, so I finally turned to him and said: "For fuck's sake shut up!" And he was rather better after that.

Then came the moment when he had to read the minutes of our previous dinner, which (as President) I'd be required to sign. I'd have been well advised to ask to take a look at the minutes before he brought them to the meeting. But I'd missed out on that possibility. When he came to read them out at the meeting however, I was in for a nasty surprise, in that he'd written a whole lot of sniping comments against the President's handling of the evening. But it was wittily expressed, so that it evoked ripples of laughter. And there was little that I could do after he'd finished than to enquire (with a certain pomposity as a measure of self-deprecation) whether there wasn't anybody who might like to object to the minutes. Blake stated quite firmly: "No, certainly not!" So I signed them with good grace.

The fact is that I do worry however, and I fret over such matters for prolonged hours in retrospect. It must reveal some basic insecurity with regard to my identity. On the one side there is a determination to dominate the group, in which I find myself upset by anyone's attempts to thwart me. But these anxieties are fed by a basic anxiety that I might not be well fitted for the task - a doubt inside me that I am the natural leader of men that I set myself up to be.

Perhaps I should dwell for a moment upon this question of leadership - asking myself why it should ever seem important to me. And I think there must be a linkage to the fascist values which were fed to me by Dad. All right, I shout my head off in fierce dispute with him, whenever Dad is proclaiming such ideas. But I suppose it must be that I dread not matching up to these ideals he imposed upon me, and they remain instilled within my subconscious aspirations for life. I constantly feel as if I've got to prove myself in a soaring flight of leadership qualities, while there is another part of me which keeps whispering the thought that this is all so unnecessary. Why should I saddle myself with all this worry? Might there not be greater peace of mind in taking a step back from that competitive scene, and fix my sights instead upon the task of attaining an attitude of harmony with the universe?

What the problem might well reduce to is a need for a more realistic discernment of the spirit prevailing for our age. I really do feel that, in a more barbarous age, I might have been well qualified to emerge as the kind of leader that Dad would admire - as fierce and ruthless as the situation might demand. But the process of humanity civilizing itself introduces a whole set of other goals and values. And the more I become aware of these, the more the doubt takes root in my heart that I'm not journeying down the best road in life - where `the best' might be defined as being of the greatest use to mankind. But if I were finally to decide that I'm journeying on a vehicle down the wrong track, then it poses another question of how to get off. How to switch vehicles? And how to identify such a new vehicle?

Today Friday, there was a lively cocktail party given by Xavier Givoudon. Ian R and [H] started fighting, but it was all settled quite amicably.

I forgot to say how last night [H] came into my room and began "teasing". He really is most tiresome in these matters. But I think I now know how to contend with him. As soon as I perceived that this was his fixed intent, I didn't waste any further time over a gradual process of getting incensed. I went straight to a hot peak, flaring up in instant anger. And [H] quite hastily changed his tune, becoming almost docile.

On Wednesday I had my Economics collection back. Roy Harrod said that he was disappointed with it, in that it didn't match up to the quality of my essays last term. He gave it a bg mark, which is really what I'd been expecting. The point that surprises me is that he'd been regarding my essays as of a higher standard, when I'd been detesting (and disinterested in) the subject from the very start. Could he really have been paying attention to what I then wrote?

Another factor that I find depressing is that Wood tells me that my current Philosophy essays merely merit a g grade. He says that I am far too inclined to resort to speculation, which is always regarded as discreditable. I fear it means that I should forget about obtaining a First, and it may be quite a struggle even to obtain a Second. I have to pin all my hopes on the idea that Wood may just be trying to spur me into greater effort, but I can hardly count on that.

On Tuesday I was invited by Karl Leyzer to have dinner in Magdalen at the High Table. I had a similar experience with [W] at Trinity, when I accompanied him to Cambridge, but I am really most unaccustomed to the requirement of making polite conversation with men of such intellectual calibre who are totally unknown to me. I felt all the nervousness of being put on public display, to see if any of them might judge that I was worth the effort of conversation. I didn't fare well.

To empathize from the position of these prestigious dons, I see how they are perhaps unwilling to waste too much time in the effort to establish whether I might be of any interest to them. They required rapid points of reference, so I was asked what subject I was reading. The PPE answer is vaguer than they might choose, in that it comprises three different areas for investigation. One probed into my capacity to discuss Politics by enquiring for my views upon the Liberal party's election funds. But I simply didn't have any views. I didn't even know what current issue he was talking about. So he probed my capacity on Economics instead by enquiring how Roy Harrod might be rated amongst undergraduates in the House. And I felt equally ill-at-ease on this subject, in that I know how Roy is regarded as a dangerous reactionary by most economists at Oxford, but my own feelings of loyalty towards a friend required me to be more supportive in what I might have to say. Yet I had no wish to defend his views - quite apart from the fact that I don't enjoy discussing economic issues in any way at all. So I was floundering hopelessly in my reply. And it was worrying me to see how he was already lowering the intellectual level of the conversation he was endeavouring to initiate, as a concession to my inadequacy. So the worry augmented the fluster - and so on. At this point he seemed to despair, and left me to talk to the don on the other side of me.

Later on when we were sitting round the fire in their Senior Common Room, I perked up somewhat and was actually beginning to enjoy myself. In fact I was involved in quite a lively conversation on the subject of whether Communist Russia will evolve into something more democratically socialist. I was arguing that it will, but Karl's own position on that subject is dangerously right wing. As a refugee from Communism himself, I suppose it is only natural that he should fear Russia more greatly than someone in the West. But he didn't like to hear me airing such views in the company of his colleagues, and hastened to whisk me away from them, suggesting that we go and have a drink with Aldred Drummond - Bendor's younger brother, who is now in his first year at Oxford.

Karl was quite revealing upon his own inner anxieties, when explaining how he feared the insidious influence of socialism - even within the solid walls of an academic sanctuary such as Magdalen College. He is currently their equivalent of being the Senior Censor, responsible for the college discipline. Well it seems that he recently sent down some undergraduate for conducting studies which concerned his fellow undergraduates - generally on the class issue of who mingled with whom. Karl was making the point that people don't like to be spied upon in this manner - being set up as subjects for sociological study, without giving their consent, and without even being aware of what was going on. Karl declared that he had little option but to get rid of the man. But he was making the point that he was told in doing so, that he would have to answer for his actions once the day of revolution arrived. And he deplored being the subject for such threats.

It was quite late by the time I finally got back home to bed.

On Thursday I had my tutorial with Oscar Wood. He worries me by saying that I'll have to be far more careful about what I write, if I am going to get a Second. But the more careful I endeavour to be, the less I manage to get round to saying anything at all of significance. I had supposed that my paper on General Philosophy was quite excellent. I'd even been hoping for an ab mark, but Oscar only tells me that it might make the b grade - subject to a Viva perhaps.

I was also supposing that I'd done a good paper for him on Moral Philosophy, but he marked this as a g++. What I can't make out is whether he is just trying to frighten me into making more strenuous efforts for him; and if that's his intent, then he's succeeding. I really don't know what to believe.

The organization of the Bullingdon dance has left me with a few problems to sort out in its aftermath. It seems that we are £15 short on the takings - largely due to the fact that eleven bottles of champagne managed to disappear.

One point which did come to light however, (and which shocks me slightly,) is that the members who volunteered to organize the dance had all presented themselves with free tickets. So I naturally came up with the suggestion that it was now for them to settle the deficit - which they agreed to do.

The Wine and Food Society dinner was held in the Great Hall at Trinity on Thursday evening. (Tim S has made me a member.) It wasn't long before apples and oranges were flying around as missiles. One landed right beside my scallop shell, and I was told that it had been fired by Robin Herbert. So I threw it back, scoring a direct hit in the middle of his plate, which splashed sauce all over Peter S-D's coat. A furious waiter then came up to enquire if I realized that this was Trinity College, and not Christ Church - to which I retorted that he didn't appear to realize that he was a waiter. Striking below the belt, I daresay!

It was only a minority of us who were misbehaving - much to Tim S's embarrassment, I should note. But the ribald lot were eventually bidding up the price for which of us might be the first to piss in the log fire - dangerous in that the last Proctor was sitting at a table close by. I had a try when the bidding reached a figure of 25/-, but with so many people watching me, I failed to produce more than a tiny dribble of urine, which was declared invalid since the jet had to endure for at least five seconds. We were all standing there, under the pretext of warming our hands. Mark Evans was the next to try - and he succeeded where I had failed.

We ended up in Mark's room, playing poker. To start with I was winning quite a lot - several pounds up at one time. But when it came to the Funnies, I began to lose it all, and ended up about 5/- down. It may well be due to my lack of acquaintance with what might be judged an average hand, once the rules for these Funnies are in operation. I cannot claim to be good at such games.

I should have mentioned how last week was held the Oxford-Cambridge boxing match. I didn't go to see it myself, but I was told how the Oxford welterweights were not of a high standard - which makes me suppose that I could have gained a place on the team, if I had chosen that as one of my goals. Indeed, both Nicky Gage and Charles Lockhart have both represented Oxford on particular occasions over the past year. (So if they, then why not I?) It may be nice to think that I could have been an Oxford half-blue, if only I had tried. But the only valid point for consideration is that I chose not to, and the rest belongs to the world of hypotheticals - not reality.

I would say that I'm working very hard, as I gear myself up towards the ordeal of Schools. My pattern of life can really be reduced to four distinct activities - work, films, chess and drink. Notwithstanding the distractions however, I feel that I am learning a great deal about philosophy. Nor does it greatly matter what degree I take. The fact that I've been put through the mill of what amounts to learning how to discipline my thoughts, and to express them coherently, will be an advantage that I carry with me throughout my life. I do realize how I fall far short of being an ideal pupil, for a reason that I might identify as an inability to concentrate my whole attention upon the subject that I'm studying. There might be a great deal of interesting activity going on in my head simultaneously with such endeavour, but it doesn't actually assist me.

Tim S tells me that he has been talking to Oscar Wood (who was his own Philosophy tutor at Worcester before he came to Christ Church) about his expectations for me in my Finals. And quite enfuriatingly Tim takes the line that he is unprepared to divulge what might have been said since it was spoken in confidence! So I need to address myself to that kind of situation, in trying to work out what Oscar thinks of my chances. Would they be saying what they've said if they were really thinking that I'd do badly? No, I'm sure that there's an element of holding back from praising me, on a theory that this will goad me into greater efforts to excel. Anyway I'm hoping that their thoughts are along those lines.

Loders dinner was on Friday. I enjoyed myself immensely, and I think it was regarded as a success all round.... John Jolliffe was the junior member, being required to finish off the port - a task which he performed very well. And for a while, it looked as if the port was having virtually no effect whatsoever. But after a quarter of an hour, he began to get aggressive, and I suppose that I must have been too. So it ended up that we were wrestling with one another. In the end we had to be separated.

Hugh Trevor-Roper had been my guest, but he didn't really take to the rowdy mood that was developing, and retired to his rooms quite early. The rest of us were indeed becoming rather destructive, with some of the furniture getting broken. So we were urged to go and look for things to destroy elsewhere. The only thing that really suffered was the college notice board, which got broken and then thrown into Mercury. I then managed to lose my sense of direction, and landed up in Meadows rather than in Peck, where the others were all gathering. But I finally managed to find them - in John J's room.

Our guests had to be out of the college by midnight, so I invited them all to come back to Folly Bridge with me, where the party remained very much alive for a further two hours. By now however, John J was becoming the worse for wear - sinking into a depression it seemed. Nobody could think what had triggered him off in this fashion, but it seemed wisest not to ask. Eventually he staggered back to Christ Church, and managed to get caught when climbing in - for which he was fined £5.

I went along on Saturday to hear my collection report, which was quite good. They said that I'd do well in Schools, provided that I keep trying and do not lapse.

Then I went round to see Blake in order to get my paper on Political Theory returned. He made some nice comments on it, but ended up by grading it as ß-, which struck me as being far less commendable than he'd been indicating. So I protested that I didn't understand how it was that he never saw fit to mark my work with an a grade. He smiled and declared that an a was awarded as a very special mark.

I don't know what to think. They tell me that I'm doing well, while throwing ß g gradings at me. It just doesn't make sense. So naturally it gets me thinking that they're all involved in a plot to spur me on to greater efforts. This suspicion was strengthened when I told Oscar Wood that I'd done an unsatisfactory paper for Blake, and he smiled in saying: "Yes I hear you got a ß - -!" - as if goading me to repeat my protest about never being awarded an a. They find it so damn funny to rile me in this fashion, and I suspect that they joke about it amongst themselves.

On Monday I went for a final tutorial with Oscar Wood - even though it was officially after the term had ended. I also made a last effort to extract from him what he really thinks about the standard of my work. So this is the gist of what I finally got him to say.

"If you really wanted to, (and I can't really blame you for being unambitious about such matters,) you could push your work up to an aß standard. As it is I feel quite sure that you are capable of getting good ß marks. So I fully expect you to obtain a Second. But you do have to be careful to restrain yourself from flying wild - making vague and generalized statements which don't mean as much as you think they do. You have still got to learn that you must answer the question that the examiner has posed, and to stick to that question without wandering astray."

I think that I should regard this as a more encouraging verdict than he has previously seen fit to offer me. But I cannot say more than that.

This afternoon (Friday) I packed up the books that I shall require for the vacation, and drove back to Longleat to meet the couple that Claude Algar has found for me, to serve as my very first domestic staff. He had been enquiring on the estate to discover who might wish to apply for the job, and it was only Jimmy Carter who came forward - after marrying Mrs Peat so that they could be considered as a couple.

I do of course know Carter quite well, in that he was the foreman of that forestry gang with whom I was once working during the holidays from Eton. We were planting trees at Swancombe at the time, and I was greatly embarrassed to learn, later, that Dad went and sacked the entire gang (apart from Jimmy, who was merely deprived of his foremanship,) on what amounted in fact to my own evidence that they were less than industrious. But it would seem that Carter doesn't hold that against me, or he would never have applied for this job.

Anyway it's a delightful new experience for me to be living at Longleat with my own domestic staff. Jimmy is quite evidently the one who took the initiative in applying for the job, whereas Mrs Carter spends the whole time looking nervous. I think she's uncertain of being able to match up to the requirements that I might expect of her. In fact the two of them appear to be in too much of a dither, as if they suppose I might be angry with them for any departure from established etiquette. But that's not the way I look at it. So long as they prepare my meals for me in adequate (if simple) fashion, and handle such matters as the household shopping, and the housework, I cannot see that I have any greater expectations of them. Mrs Carter cooks quite adequately, and Jimmy seems happy enough pottering around doing all the small odds and ends - which is good enough for me.

This evening I had to attend the play at the Lord Weymouth School - Clifford Bax's `Rose Without a Thorn'. It was as well produced and well acted as ever. But I really do find it one hell of a strain to contend with all the formal conversation which is required of me on such occasions. Polite exchanges with whatever dignitaries Mrs Macdonald had seen fit to seat beside me; and that terrible session when I get taken behind the scenes to congratulate the players - when they sneer at me for wanting (as they suppose) to peer at them in a state of undress. It was quite impossible for me to feel comfortable under conditions such as that. Dad could take these matters far more easily in his stride, and I do resent it that he has quietly palmed off all such duties upon myself. I cannot feel as yet that I am suited to this role. And what it boils down to is that Dad has bequeathed me all the drudgery, without the accompanying power and prestige.

It suddenly dawned upon me that most of the vacation had slipped by, without me having completed much of the work schedule which I had set for myself. So I've been getting down to it over this last week - finishing the Economics, and then compiling a date list to assist me in my revision of the Politics. It looks as if I'll have cleared the decks, ready for my holiday with [V] in Paris next week.

On Monday morning I received a telephone call from Daphne Battine, asking if she could bring over a friend called Edward Langley. So I invited them to dinner. This meant that the Carters went to all the trouble of preparing a full meal for three. But at 20.00 hrs Daphne rang up to say they couldn't make it until after 22.00 hrs. I thought this was the limit, so I hinted that they should dine on the way - which she quickly offered.

But the net result is that the Carters were greatly upset. And next morning Jimmy told me that his wife was finding these household duties to be rather too much for her, so that they probably wouldn't be able to continue in this manner of employment. I'm still not clear what the final outcome may be, but it doesn't look any too hopeful.

I have now finished virtually all of the work I had set myself to do during the vacation - the one omission being Wittgenstein's `Tractatus'. But of course that was the intended minimum, rather than any maximum possibility. Nevertheless I am feeling reasonable pleased with my efforts.

On Sunday morning I had to drive over to Devizes for the Wiltshire Yeomanry's rifle-shooting meeting. My actual performance was moderate - no scores to match what I used to get when I was out in Germany with the Life Guards, but then I'm badly out of practice. And in any case, who cares?