Friday, June 26, 1981
At eleven-thirty I trudged reluctantly down to school in intermittent rain, feeling depressed and fed-up for some reason. I played Jeremy at tennis and lost a three hour game 4-6, 4-6, 7-6, 0-6 and got back at three.
During teatime I got embroiled in an argument with Mum and Dad over crime. I was accused of ‘siding’ with the criminals and I suppose I was but I didn’t see it like that and ended up doubting my entire belief-system. Socialism! Does it really “go against the grain of human-nature” as George Gale claims? I always think not, but then I could be just repeating a load of Utopian rhetoric because I feel I ‘ought’ to. I don’t really know what I believe. I was plunged into self-piteous silence for the evening, and never stopped looking at the black side of things: my failure to invite everyone over (have I snubbed Claire?); my dilemmas about what to wear; my doubts about my ideals. . . . Now it all sounds so childishly heart-rending that I’m embarrassed, but these things bother me, I can’t deny it.
I tried on my new boots with my blue trousers. Thought I felt silly, but wasn’t sure.