[Sunday 8 August 1993]

Extravagant preparations are being made for a dinner in a very large, almost palatial home. When the guests arrive, however, there is only one of them—and it is Andrew Daddo (one of the Daddos, anyway). He is wearing oddly coloured trousers and other clothing in an old-fashioned style, probably from the sixties. He and my mother sit down to dinner. I don’t go. Grace is recited. He speaks an overlong, rambling, respectful prayer. I’m not very happy about all this and go off sulking.