Sunday, December 20, 1981
I awoke to steady, light snow, which degenerated into drizzle in the afternoon. I was up by eleven but Andrew stayed in bed until half-twelve and from then on, idleness and boredom, feeling depressed, hemmed in and bleak. Andrew feels the same I suspect. In the house an atmosphere of moroseness prevailed, with a slight undercurrent of tension. Occasionally Mum and Dad flared up, whining and moaning on about something or other.
The thought of Christmas fills me with a kind of resignation. I hadn’t thought about it before, but what Andrew says is true: on Christmas day we’ll all sit there like idiots wearing stupid paper hats, stuffing our faces for no other reason than "it's Christmas." It’s all such a boring and predictable routine now, an annual chore.
By evening a gradual thaw had set in and after dark, everywhere was alive to the sounds of dripping water. I watched Bowie’s The Man Who Fell To Earth on TV. Weird.