I spent the day reading Wilson’s The Occult, pleasant inaction before the fire in the unaccustomed comforts of the dining room, understanding that I need to digest and come back to what I’m reading before its full import can be properly realized.
Dad is angry that the familiar dark blue of Easterby City buses is being changed to the standardized red and white of Yorkshire Metro, which he sees as an erosion of the ‘individuality’ of the identity of the old city of Easterby. When not in daily contact with him it’s easy to forget, but I realise now how utterly reactionary he is.
Mum too keeps making her customary digs and hints about my appearance and my ‘career’ after I’ve graduated. “You’ll have to buy a pair of decent trousers when you’re looking for work. Both Andrew and Robert have realised that you have to conform eventually.” She says she was tempted to buy me a pair of “decent trousers”—presumably jeans—before I came home and today mentioned, with contrived nonchalance, that Andrew had commented on my suitability as an editor at a big publishing firm like Longman’s.
I refuse to respond to any of these hints and nudges.
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