Wednesday, April 7, 1982
When I got up there was a stranglehold of depression on the house. God, what with Dad waxing defeatist and despairing about his job, being biased and somehow pitifully naïve, Mum getting all bitter and pessimistic over the financial prospects of me going (?) to Uni., Andrew staring dully into the garden. . . . For one moment it all sort of overwhelmed me and I felt like giving up. Two 'C's and a 'B'! God, I’m not even sure I want to do the course! The griping, my hopeless feelings about everything . . . if anyone needs that inner peace it’s me.
At least I’ll be able to escape to Grant’s on Friday.
Mum says she’s petrified of the consequences of Dad being unemployed and says she thinks he’s afraid of this whole new world he’s being pitched into. He's almost like a school-leaver, naïve about interviews, etc.
The Falklands post crisis hysteria has subsided a bit and is replaced by a sort of concerned doubt.