I'm so glad you enjoyed the Tangerine jaunt. I loved having you here.... I saw little Miss "Carter's Liver-pills" the other day, who was nice and friendly .... Rumours about the "children's party" report that it was terrific. Hewlyn Dunlop claims that she had to steer you over the Kasbah Square, which you were finding difficult to negotiate....

By the way, you are rum to brood over Scrabble. It's only a game, and it's silly to be over competitive. Xan says you shouldn't take on so. He knew all along that "squit" was slang, and he was just bluffing when he claimed that it was used by Shakespeare - a bluff to which you've only just tumbled. But to my mind it didn't justify at the time your shouting incoherently in argument. Sorry that I go on talking quietly whenever you are trying to make your point. I'm sure that I do listen to you, when we are having conversation alone. I assure you that people often don't listen to me, but one can't expect to rivet everyone's attention the whole time.

I am glad you are going to get a couple to look after you at Longleat. I am sure it will work out far better like that, and your shouting matches with Dad won't crop up so much. Job's Mill is very small to house everyone serenely, and those rows must be so embarrassing for the guests.

Our boat is delayed to Gibraltar, but I think we should reach London about the 29th. We shall be staying with Debo Devonshire for about five days. Do telephone if you are in London. Longing to see you again.

I have just received an answer to the letter that I recently sent Mum. But I'd better describe first what I'd said to her.

Once I got back to Britain from Tangier, I was feeling peeved at the way Xan had proclaimed on a whole variety of occasions that I continue arguing after I've been shot down. And he was urging me to be less argumentative. But his position depends upon the authority of what he has to say, and I'm inclined to suspect him of intellectual dishonesty. I suspect that he furnishes evidence which is tailored to suit his case. When he claims to know something, he expects me to take his word for it - and to shut up. But that is tantamount to taking the line that I shouldn't argue with him. That kind of position is far too rigid for me nowadays. I am apt to challenge all manner of evidence, probing it with the questioning techniques that I've acquired since coming up to Oxford. And he should accept that as fair play.

There were too many occasions while I was out in Tangier that Xan endeavoured to terminate my opposition by stating some piece of evidence as if it were a fact. But I often remained dubious about what he proclaims. It may well be that very often, he knows what he's talking about. But I suspect there were occasions when he was just inventing the evidence that he requires. So I took the trouble to check up on some of his proclaimed bits of knowledge once I got back home, just to see if he's intellectually honest. And there was one small item where I discovered that he had been bluffing.

It's all so trivial that one might well say that I should have left the matter alone. But when we were playing Scrabble out there, Xan justified his use of the word `squit' by declaring that it had been used by Shakespeare. But when I got home, I found it in a dictionary of slang - with no reference to any Shakespearean origin. So in my letter to Mum, I pointed this out to her, hoping that it would justify the fuss that I had made over the word at the time.

It seemed important to me because, if I am to accept Xan's authoritatively proclaimed statements with which he is apt to prevail in any discussion, then I do need to establish that he doesn't bluff. For if he does so, then the whole bulk of his pronouncements must be treated as suspect. And I considered that I had just proven the latter point. But it seems as if my protest has backfired. Or Mum is choosing to take Xan's side. For she is telling me that it's silly to take a game so seriously, and that Xan was bluffing from the start - a bluff to which I've only just tumbled. And the inference is that I'm a bit stupid!

The fact of Mum taking Xan's side like this troubles me. If the equivalent had occurred, with Dad instead of Xan being involved, then I think that she would have been striving harder to comprehend my problem. But it looks as if her outlook has now been reoriented - which leaves me on my own.

I think she may also be insinuating that my reaction is humourless. And I suppose that I am apt to take trivialities too seriously. I fret over them, when I ought to be able to set the worry to one side.

Putting myself in Xan's shoes, he may well resent my inclination to check up on his evidence after a discussion has been concluded. He may suppose that my purpose is to make him look silly, so he fires that shot in reverse. But I'd respect him a lot more if he was more self-critical of his own stances. He's too much concerned to entrench his position as the cock of the roost. And I don't enjoy getting pecked.

I have this feeling that if we begin to see a lot of one another, then we are liable to fall out. And I already perceive in him a mounting dislike for my seriousness, at times when other people display humour. The point remains stuck in my own mind that the man is intellectually dishonest. He is quite prepared to cheat if, by doing so, he maintains his own position as supreme. And if he's a cheat, then what of the rest of his morality? These are matters which I might find myself with a reason to investigate, over some issue yet to arise. And that's a thought which makes me feel uncomfortable.

I feel critical towards Mum too. She's too ready to switch her own ideas, so as to conform with the man in her life. And there's a hint of volatility, even gullibility in that position. It also irks me when she misconstrues the significance of my protest - as if I were just getting upset about the rules of playing Scrabble. She's intelligent all right, although a bit light-weight when it comes to intellectual analysis. Rather similar to [Z] I might note! Or it might be more a case of their shared femininity in that respect. But if Mum were my girlfriend, I imagine that I'd fall out with her on much the same level as I did with [Z].

Thank you for sending the telegram to Christopher. Virginia and I, and Nanny, gave him a rousing send-off and he left without tears, except a few from Georgia. We all got very merry on the boat, but I must say the people on board looked awful to me, especially as `The United States' is the crack boat of America.

With regard to the other matter brought up in your letter, I think I was asked about this once before and I believe I then said "No" because I thought the request was in rather bad taste. I still think it to be in bad taste, but if you and others concerned wish it, I am certainly not going to say no. If you want it to take place, I would be obliged if it could be between the following dates, when I shall be away at the Waterloo Cup and at Enton Hall - namely Feb 6th and 10th inclusive, and between Feb 12th and 19th inclusive.

I've also received a letter from Dad, objecting to my suggestion that Mum and Xan might come and stay the night at Longleat - on the grounds that the request was in bad taste. On the other hand he didn't veto the idea. So I'll explain that to Mum if the situation should actually arise.

I had also asked Dad for the date of Georgia's birthday, which is sometime in February. But he didn't answer this query. I rather suspect that this means that he's indignant that I didn't take the opportunity to wish himself a happy birthday at the same time - which was indeed an oversight. And I note that as soon as I'd sent him a telegram to rectify the matter, I received a second letter giving me the information for which I'd asked!

For lunch on Sunday I drove over to Faringdon, where Mum (temporarily without Xan) was staying with Robert Heber-Percy. Robert inherited this delightful house from Lord Berners, who was his lover I'm told. And he runs it very much as the in-place for all the local homosexual intelligentsia - including many from the Oxford scene.

I was seated next to Mum at lunch, but also in the company of a couple of schoolgirls from St Mary's. One of them was Oliver Fox-Pitt's sister, and the other was John Betchman's daughter. I enjoyed making conversation with them, since they were at an age when they were both just beginning to be aware of men as something that might be of interest to them. And they were attractive too. I like to think that I was teaching them how to flirt!

After lunch we all went motoring round the countryside. But I finished by taking Mum to look at Folly Bridge, which she had never seen. Then we returned to Faringdon where the principal topic of interest was now some review of a book which has just been written by one of the men who went to prison with Lord Montagu. (Peter Wildeblood?) It had been given a bad review anonymously, in the Times Literary Supplement, I think. And Robert had apparently discovered that its author was Sparrow, the Warden of All Souls. They were commenting on how bitchy it had been. But the big excitement was that Sparrow himself was coming over for a drink, without knowing that they had discovered him to be responsible for sneering at their friend's book. They were playing tit-for-tat in bitchiness, getting him to discuss the review and then pulling it to pieces with comments like: "This must have been written by someone who'd love to be homosexual, but simply doesn't dare!" And I heard Sparrow flustering to say: "I know you all think that I wrote this review, but I didn't!"

The general atmosphere of malicious conversation was eventually getting me down. There seemed no real desire for anyone to be nice to one another. James Spooner and Kate Ward came to join the party, but I was beginning to feel depressed. So I just made my excuses and drove home.

I went over to dinner at Job's Mill on Thursday, and for lunch today, Friday. It is really pleasant being able to accept their invitations in this fashion, without having to feel any longer that I'm bound to go over there. Having my own domestic staff at Longleat seems to have resolved that problem.

I see that they now have television at Job's Mill. It was Dad who was eager to get this installed, with Virginia holding out against him - on the grounds that it would destroy the habit of conversation. But they do look pleasantly cosy when sitting there watching it.

Apparently Virginia has been out to Spain again, staying with David Tennant. It is an extraordinary situation in my judgement. She retains D.T. as a part-time husband, (perhaps without sex,) although I suspect that Dad hates her doing this. Now that she is back again, it looks as if all is well, with their relationship seemingly strengthened by the knowledge that their personal intimacy survived the separation. But I can't help feeling worried.

On Friday evening I went over to dinner at Job's Mill to find that one of Virginia's brothers was there. This was Dennis Parsons, who writes books on a whole variety of (mainly humorous) subjects.... Virginia was saying that he hardly ever drinks, but he was knocking it back on this particular evening....

Later he began talking about hypnotism - saying how he could do it. So I asked him to have a try on me - thinking myself ever so bold to ask! Anyway he stretched me out on the sofa, with Dad and Virginia watching the cabaret, and launched out into a long rigmarole about how sleepy I was feeling - ending up by telling me to raise my hand and remove my watch. Thinking that this was all a part of the technique in getting me hypnotized, I complied with the instruction. And I daresay that it was true that I was feeling just a little bit sleepy. But there was always a part of me that seemed to be looking on at these proceedings, perfectly awake and faintly amused. So I suddenly giggled, which offended Dennis greatly. And he promptly went off to bed.

I was slightly apprehensive before Mum and Xan arrived as to whether I might find Xan's attitude towards myself to be hostile - resulting from that letter I wrote implying that he had been cheating over the authentication of words when we were playing at Scrabble. But this was a subject which we were both careful not to mention. So all was friendly on the surface, although I think there may be some trace of resentment smouldering beneath the surface.

I had responded to a request from Donald to invite all of the old retainers over for a drink at Longleat, to say hello to Mum - which is to say Donald, Mrs Sims, and Nan of course. It was Mrs Sims who held the floor as far as conversation was concerned, whilst Nan looked distinctly peeved, standing in the background. A touch of jealousy, I suspect. But she managed to put her old rival very firmly "in her place" when the time came for her to be leaving, by stepping forward to say: "Good-bye Mrs Sims" - as if she herself was staying for dinner, when in fact it had been arranged for Donald to drop her back home.

On Monday I went over to Job's Mill for lunch. It was Virginia's birthday. When I observe the intimacy of their family group - Dad, Virginia and Biblet together in this case that is to say - I do sometimes wonder how it never happened that Dad and Mum never saw fit to furnish such an atmosphere for our own family when we were at Sturford Mead. I have missed out on something which might well have had the effect of permitting me to develop into a far nicer person - an enhanced feeling that life was on my side, so to speak. I could have been more likeable that way, with much of the arrogant self-conceit in me diminished. I might have been a happier and calmer personality that way. On the other hand I might have lacked the twist, or the drive, actually to get me moving. I might have had a better chance to excel in my social life, but I don't suppose that I'd ever have felt the need to prove myself in terms of a chosen career. Or that's food for thought in any case.