It was really a mistake that I had accepted to attend this meeting (on Tuesday evening,) in that I had no intention of making any manner of speech, but was just curious to hear what others might have to say. I had in fact warned Robert O that I intended to remain silent, but he wasn't going to allow that. He was chairing the debate, and was calling upon people to stand up and speak whenever there was a silence. So I eventually fell victim to such selection.

The trouble is that I had been drinking quite heavily to tranquilize my nervousness at the prospect of such a call, and inebriation never really helps with clarity in debate. This is one occasion in my life when I know that I made a real fool of myself. There may have been something just faintly sensible that I had been intending to say, but it came out as complete drivel, and with a nervousness of delivery that set me up for ridicule. It was foolish of me even to attempt the conclusion to my speech. I should have responded far quicker in sitting down.

The point of real interest about myself however, is that I should feel so catastrophically perturbed by my own performance when I woke up next morning. All part of the hangover of course! And I do tend to feel utterly miserable when I have the recollection of making an utter fool of myself the night before. I was literally squirming with embarrassment over the entire issue - perceiving my own hostility towards a homosexual as a secret accusation against some inner aspect of myself. I daresay that it is true that some substantial part of me is that way inclined - meaning that I could develop in that direction without substantial inhibition, if it weren't for the problems of social rejection, which I choose not to incur. But I do hate perceiving in myself this false (and totally unnecessary) desire which suddenly wells up inside me to deride such practices as if they could never be a part of my real behaviour. I suppose that it's an endeavour to make myself feel comfortably safe. But I really ought to feel safe without the need to resort to such falsehood.

It was quite absurd how miserable I was feeling over the next twenty-four hours - supposing that everyone I met had heard of my ridiculous performance. And I did happen to run into a group of [L]'s friends when coming out from the Grid. I endeavoured to smile, but even that seemed absurd under the circumstances. And the smile certainly wasn't returned. And once I got back to Folly Bridge, I found myself in a state where I couldn't focus my mind sufficiently to do anything constructive at all. When I tried to read, my thoughts kept slipping back to my folly the previous night. I kept blurting out exclamations like: "God I'm a fool!" Or: !I hate myself!" Or: "I wish I could die!" And with part of my mind, I really did mean these things.

When I'm in that kind of a mood, the idea of suicide does appear for the time being as a most attractive solution - the only logical method of straightening things out. And when I view myself dispassionately in retrospect, I come near to concluding that I am balancing just a hairsbreadth distance from insanity - liable to take absurdly irrational decisions within some spurious logic which might seem plausible at the time. I then tell myself that death alone can release me from the inner turmoil which this evokes, and that life itself has insufficient value under the prevailing conditions. I realize how this is merely an intellectual flirtation with the concept of death, and I trust that it will never go further than this, but it always seems real enough at the time.

The truth of the matter is that I was in a state of neurotic anguish, and I just had to wait for time to restore me to a more normal tranquillity. But there is indeed one safeguard that I do now recognize, against the likelihood of me ever actually implementing this urge to kill myself - which is the idea that now I am taking over the ownership of the Longleat Estate, there is the responsibility which goes with it of living long enough to hand it over to a son. I ought to have dissuaded Dad from handing it all over to me, if suicide were a possibility that I might be contemplating. The whole purpose of the exercise was to enable the Thynne family to remain at Longleat, without incurring the payment of death duties in the transition from one generation to the next. So until I have succeeded in having a son, and transferring the estate into his possession, I have lost the right to commit suicide!

In that I am nowadays unable to conceal my irritation at [W]'s arrival in my room, he didn't remain for long. So I was excused from having to take him down to the Grid with me - where I suspect that people are beginning to notice that he seeks out my company rather too often. I feel as if my identity is so vulnerable, whenever I'm walking in his company. With either [C] or [Q], I do at least feel that they promote my self-imagery in a direction where I might suppose that my identity can be sustained and embellished.

I discovered on Saturday that [L] had got his own back on me for my incoherent jibes against his homosexuality. He writes the gossip column for `Isis', and I'm told that he has inserted something derogatory about me in it - the gist being that I am "a smart young thing" who goes round in a two-toned cad's car, wearing a pixie hood. This is a reference to the duffle-coat which I sometimes wear; and I have of course had my Triumph painted in delightful twin tones of blueish green, ever since it had to be resprayed after that accident. But I think what [L] is implying, albeit obscurely, is that I'm a closet queen - two-toned, and hiding beneath a pixie hood. It's all so wide of the mark that it doesn't really offend. But it does continue to astonish me that he perseveres in maintaining such image of me. Not that I can blame him for endeavouring to strike back at me. There was such a corny joke that I slung at him during the Asquith debate, so I deserve it!

On Saturday evening, I went to a party given by Anthony Shiel. It went rather well, with lots of people becoming tight rather quickly. And I was pleased to note that Sally Marris gives the impression of being quite fond of me at times. But I shouldn't let that go to my head, in that others seem convinced that I am oriented towards men, rather than towards women.

This was made evident when [Z] came up to me and declared, in Mark Tennant's presence, that he'd heard something quite interesting about me - that when I'd been at my preparatory school, I'd "had a crush" on [N]. He was stating this far too publicly for my liking, and with all his habitual absence of any tact. But I was feeling quite tight, and took the accusation in my stride. I replied quite courageously, and without embarrassment: "If you mean in the normal sense of having a crush, then the answer is no. But if you're asking me if I ever had minor homosexual relations with him, then the answer is yes - although it's none of your business." And I think that [Z] then realized that he had been probing too intrusively, in that he promptly faded back into the crowd.

As I now read the situation, [Z]'s comments were triggered by [L]'s dig at me in `Isis', and incited perhaps by some comments from Mark Tennant about me having homosexual inclinations when at Ludgrove. I think the whole purpose of their exercise was to see if I broke down in confusion when confronted with such evidence. The accusation had indeed been made in the presence of someone who had been in a position to know about these matters. So they must have supposed that they had me cornered. But I think I dodged their trap quite neatly, and now that I'm writing about it in retrospect, it almost makes me laugh, if it weren't for the fact that far too many people make this same mistake about my sexual inclinations - especially homosexuals who assert that they can recognize me as being one of their own number. They'll just have to think again, is all that I can really say!

This morning Saturday I felt horribly jittery, which is quite normal I suppose, after a Loders' dinner. What unhinges me within these situations is that my mind starts fretting until I've found a suitable subject for me to worry about, and thus to rationalize the jitters that I'm feeling. In this particular instance, I managed to remember some crude drawings that I'd made - of a girl's breasts and cunt, over the inscription: "This is all we think about!" This was in the Loders' dinner book, where we traditionally sign our names. Foolishly immature, I daresay! But I shouldn't have regarded it as so terrible as I did - as if it was something that I so desperately needed to rectify, before I could regain my peace of mind. I felt as if I was in danger of going to pieces until I'd got the matter adjusted. I found that I wasn't getting any work done at all, while this was preying upon my mind. So I demanded to see the book, and then scratched out the drawings I'd made, along with the crude comment. And just very gradually I began to feel my true self again, with my peace of mind restored. But I don't suppose that I'll be fully recovered until I've had an additional night's sleep, and put further distance between myself and the idiocy of my behaviour at the dinner.

John Lucas read my paper on Morality and Politics, and gave it back to me after I'd been round to discuss it with him. The points he raised were not significantly different from anything that he has said to me before - which really amounts to a concern on his side that my attitude is developing upon lines which are too materialistic, and devoid of a concern for spiritual values perhaps. But my whole purpose is to conceive a full understanding of life without invoking anything supernatural (or even mystical) in my explanations of it. I think that John might prefer that I acknowledged the existence of mysteries lying beyond our human (or even Futurity's) understanding. But I feel much caution on his approach. By opening the door even slightly ajar, a whole flood of incompatible ideas would promptly demand inclusion within my attitude-formation - to a degree that they would just destroy the logic that I am in the process of discovering.

What I do find encouraging is the way that J.L. is suggesting that I ought to take a full course in Greats. He seems to think that I am well suited for it, with all my interest in how theories can be strung together to comprise an attitude. The ancient Greeks were concerned with such adventurous endeavours to piece together what amounted to their strictly personal understanding of the universe - with each (virtually amateur) philosopher holding a very different viewpoint to the others, and to a degree of enthusiasm that has been extinguished in modern philosophy. He urges me not to be discouraged if I should do less well than I might be hoping in Schools. He tells me that I should keep at it until I have assembled my thoughts into a book - much in the manner that the ancient Greeks were concerned to do these things.

I took the line that there wasn't really much use in my spending too much time in writing philosophical papers, when the fact of the matter is that I'll never be a philosopher. Philosophy gets read by other philosophers, but they would never have time to spare upon the thoughts of an amateur such as myself. But J.L. evidently thinks differently. He says there is a place for such work - even if it were a question of publishing such work privately. I think he would argue that there is room for a great many undergraduates to work out their individualistic understanding of the universe, and to put such thoughts on record, for it is in the variety of our approach to such matters that the richness of our contemporary culture might ultimately be made apparent. But he warns me that my mode of literary expression will need some discipline before I find the right form for it.

On Thursday evening I read my other paper, `The Nature of Man', to the Canning club. It was well received, and provoked a lively discussion period afterwards.

I stayed on at Oxford until Friday, to get some work done.... I have managed to get half way through the preparation of my next thesis, which will probably be entitled `The Theory of Knowledge.' It is an area where I do need to clarify my thoughts, since it would seem that both Wood and Lucas accuse me of not finding the right terms in which to express the body of thought which I have compiled.

All this past week I have been glued to my books, revising all that I can. I have also completed my paper on "A Theory of Knowledge", which goes a long way to clarify my own thinking on this subject.

On Thursday afternoon I was looking out of my drawing room window at Longleat, when I espied Oscar Wood strolling in the direction of the car-park, where I finally tracked him down. Apparently his wife and a Danish girl were about to go round the house on a conducted tour. So I volunteered my own services instead; but it was little short of a lightning tour, and I daresay they'd have done better to stick with their professional guide. But in any case they appeared to appreciate the personal touch, and they came and had tea with me afterwards in my apartments. As a result of this perhaps, Wood has promised to read my thesis on `A Theory of Knowledge' most carefully!

I have also been writing a new (updated) thesis upon `The Nature of the Universe'. I've covered much the same ground as before, but the ideas now fit together a lot better. I'm finding the concept of circuited time to be more comprehendible nowadays.

On Sunday evening I was sitting in my drawing room at Longleat when Carter came in to announce that Dr Wright had come to call on me - Dr Wright being the new Horningsham Vicar, whom I had yet to meet. He came marching in with a most determined air, saying: "Hello Weymouth, I thought I'd come and introduce myself."

Now I didn't really appreciate the "Hello Weymouth" bit. I wouldn't necessarily expect him to call me Lord Weymouth, but he could easily have got by without addressing me as anything in particular. I have since learnt from Aunt Kate that he is a retired judge from the British Raj in India, and it would seem that he is quite well accustomed to exercising his authority. But he was here giving me the impression that he was determined to dominate me, and to make me submit to whatever plans he might have in mind. These were quickly revealed in that he declared that he wanted me to come and read the lessons in church each Sunday. Confronted with this forceful statement, I think I did quite well in repulsing him. I merely told him that I thought it would be somewhat hypocritical of me to do as he bade, in that I was an atheist, and shouldn't deceive people in the village by supposing that I might be otherwise.

Judging from his expression, I had flattened his middle stump. He never recovered from that statement, despite it not being strictly true. I do believe in some manner of conceiving God, as the Totality of the Universe, of which we are all some small insignificant part. But I don't believe in his conception of Deity, which I assume to be something mystical - to the extent of it all being a nonsense.

A little falteringly, he did suggest that we discuss my assertion that I might be an atheist somewhat further, but I kept to the safest ground in arguing that I followed the line of thought that mystical concepts are virtually without meaning. And he didn't appear all that comfortable in having to defend his notion of God against such sacrilege, becoming surprisingly hesitant in his line of argument. I rather doubt that I'll be troubled by him again - unless he takes joy in the prolonged endeavour to save a sinner's soul!

But in point of fact I took quite a liking to him. He had been at Oxford himself, and might well have Christian friends who could martial the right arguments to make me see the light. I do not rule out the possibility that this could happen to me one day - although I cannot perceive the line of thought which might take me in that direction. There could be no harm in them trying however.

On arriving back at Longleat from Oxford, I found that Mark Girouard was here doing some research up in the Old Library, on the way this house was built. He wants to write a paper on that subject I believe. But it created an awkward situation for me. I greatly value my own privacy, so had no particular wish to become more sociable just because Mark had decided to come and do some research here. On the other hand I did know him quite well when he was up at Oxford, so it might have been regarded as remiss if I didn't offer him any manner of hospitality. It created quite a dilemma for me. He had left a note to say that he was staying up at `The Bath Arms', and I couldn't very well default on giving him some sign of recognition that I'd received his communication. So I eventually telephoned to invite him to stay in one of the rooms upstairs - all on the assumption that we'd live our lives independently thereafter.

But he then asked for sandwiches to eat up in the Library - which I sent him of course. But it then occurred to me that my behaviour might be regarded as inhospitable to the point of meanness. So I invited him to come and share my own meals with me. And my privacy was by now quite seriously being eroded - to an extent that I wasn't getting down to all the work I've set myself. I need to feel that I can plod on (without fear of interruptions) before the mood for work really takes root. But I am gradually getting used to his quite charming, if intrusive presence, so that my work output is creeping back up again.

When [P] and Edward Langley finally arrived, it was approaching midnight. So I had little choice but to put them up in my apartments overnight - sleeping on the sofas, I might add. Despite the coolness with which I greeted them (because of all the problems they were creating for me with my household staff), the atmosphere quickly thawed. In fact we had a lively discussion which went on long into the night - mainly about religion.

Edward is apparently a Catholic who is in the process of lapsing - uncertain in his own heart about the existence of God - whereas [P] herself is still fervently of the Catholic faith. So it worked out that [P] and myself were fighting for Edward's soul! And it did rather seem that I was gaining ground. At any rate, while Edward had gone off to the loo at one point, [P] was making a quick appeal to my sense of decency, urging me not to lead him astray. But I didn't really see why I should play along with such an appeal to restore his faith in Christianity - let alone Catholicism. If he is glimpsing the possibility of freedom, then he ought to be encouraged to think for himself in these matters. I don't suppose that he is in danger of going off the rails, if he departs from that faith. So I brushed her protest quickly aside, and continued with my line of persuasion once he had returned.

There was another item of interest which arose during the course of our discussion, in that my fears of being taken for a homosexual came welling up to the surface at one point. The trigger-mechanism was so trivial and absurd that it is worth my examination of it. They had mentioned the name of Julian Hoare, asking if I knew him, and I suddenly found that I was blushing crimson - painfully conscious of how they were both taking note of this phenomenon, and no doubt drawing their conclusions from it.

So why on earth did I start blushing? Well I'll attempt an explanation. Julian Hoare is the elder brother of Francis Hoare, with whom I was once very friendly when we were both at Ludgrove - to an extent that we were affectionately dubbed as Romeo and Juliet. (Myself as Juliet, to my chagrin!) The relationship wasn't physically homosexual, although there may well have been an element of such regard, as epitomised within the civilization of the ancient Greeks. Neither Francis, nor myself, have gone on to develop as homosexuals. But it suddenly struck me that the point of [P]'s query might be to ascertain whether (as rumour often has it) I am a secret participant within homosexual society. That idea, coupled to just the faintest twinge of guilt concerning my former relationship with Francis, augmented by the memory of a lot deeper guilt in my homosexual relationship with a number of others when I was at Ludgrove, triggered this fit of blushing. And once it had started, I found it very difficult to put a stop to it.

I do realize just how absurd I am being in the display of such guilt. And I do realize how my behaviour merely feeds such suspicion in other people's minds. But I find it extremely difficult to keep my behaviour under control. It just runs amok, and I create for myself the punishment which I don't really deserve. I know that both [P] and Edward were thinking that they had caught me out in some way. But that's just too bad. I find it all too complicated for me to attempt any redress. And it was worse than that. In subsequent conversation, the word `homosexual' was dropped into the conversation by [P]. (Deliberately? I just don't know.) But the blushing was instantly triggered a second time. It was frightfully embarrassing. Both of them noticed, and I knew only too well what they were thinking - and how they will go away and tell others that I'm so ashamed of being a queer. If this constant display of false guilt gets any worse, I shall have to see a psychiatrist about it. Otherwise my life will become a perpetual torture.