Thursday, July 23, 1981
I awoke to torrential rain, and went to Grant’s at eleven thirty, taking along a can of meatballs, which he served up along with potatoes. Then the usual thing, listening to alternative records, etc. He showed me his 'poetry'; some of it was incoherent and rambling, but some of it was OK. Eventually everything was stained by boredom, emphasised by the rain, so we wandered down to Lodgehill and bought fruit, then fish and chips, and ended my visit watching TV and being crude and silly.
Dad was on holiday at ten, and as usual, an argument about politics started and escalated into a storming personal row. I was accused of trying to humiliate him, which brought me close to tears, I admit, because I felt hurt by that accusation. It’s so hard to explain ‘rationally’. I tried to apologise but I ended up properly in tears; I was so ashamed. I got preached to about diplomacy, tact and keeping my opinions to myself and he made me shake hands. “I don’t know what’s happened. All your other interests have gone by the board. . . .”
Maybe I’ve been ‘got at', infiltrated, eh Dad? Even Nanna P thinks I’m a communist.