Wednesday, February 24, 1982
One of those mornings where you get up and everything is bright and sunny and fresh and it all disappears so quickly; it's so hard to define and get hold of. Everything’s new and different but that afternoon used dusty sunshine look comes round so quickly.
My foot has been OK the past couple of days but aches now. I worked intermittently on my Pollock essay for Art.
In the evening I watched a programme called Riot which tried – quite fairly I thought – to put last summer's riots into an historical context, explaining that violent extra-parliamentary action is very much a part of Britain’s history. As usual, Dad disagreed and without even watching any of it was saying “You can’t compare . . . they were decent hard working people with real grievances. These lot today are just criminal yobbos doing it for the sheer hell. . . .”