I woke at six and got up at 8.45. The match was off, no doubt because of the rain, which started at about three yesterday and continued throughout last night – the snow had almost completely gone when we got up.
We all set off in the car, Mum and Dad dropping me at Howden Road, and I went into Northgate Market to look for the “Top Gear” shop to buy myself some trousers. I couldn’t find the shop – I didn’t look properly. I went from there to Eastgate Smiths and looked through their book sale – I felt resentful at first when I saw everyone crowding around the table with all the books on – there were some good books there for a couple of quid.
After looking upstairs at the record sale (crummy) I ventured down to Queensgate Smiths where I bought a Grover Washington L.P. for £1.99 in their sale which was much better. I also bought a book (the title is so embarrassing even) – called “Graphology for Lovers” and immediately I felt so cheap and insincere – I knew the real reason for me buying it and felt so corny.
At the Library I handed back a book for Duncan Verity and got out four books, three on immigration: “The Dutch Plural Society” by Christopher Bagley; “Black British, White British” by Dilip Hiro; “A Question of Colour?” by Peter Griffiths and a book on Russia called “Portraits of Russian Personalities” by Duncan Hare. The debate, which yesterday in the face of Mum and Dad’s criticism had seemed so indefensible began to seem hopeful – I had enough points to base an argument upon – especially in the Bagley book. After speaking with Steve whom I saw on the Third floor I again went into Northgate Market and to the shop, where I bought a pair of lime green canvas trousers for £15.50, which are incredibly tight.
I got home just after two and went and had my hair cut at around three; once again it is in the usual shortened style – so predictable, so boring. Next time I have it cut I’ll have it done round my ears, I’m determined.
Nothing much happened for the rest of the day until evening when I had a big argument cum debate with Mum and Dad about immigration and socialism; it eventually degenerated into friendly criticism of one another. I got called a “commie” by Dad! About the debate again – once more I’m not too sure.