1968: "MATERIAL GOODS MEAN NOTHING TO ME" — 1967-1968: Diary of a Posh Schoolgirl

Monday, 10 June

I wore my Scallyways dress. “Doesn’t Ingrid look pretty,” said Isobel, despisingly.

Did religion in Philosophy, and how absurd it is we don’t glimpse other religions until the Sixth Form. In other words, we’re being indoctrinated. The more I think about it the more Martha’s watchmaker arguments annoy me. Her outlook is extraordinarily narrow.

Current Events was fantastic - we did violence in America. The reasons behind it are (1) no restrictions on firearms, you can mail-order a gun (2) the mythology of the Wild West (3) there’s no welfare state (4) immigrants can’t get jobs (5) the Right are very right. I never realised the Republicans believe the way to stop Viet-Nam is with nuclear weapons. I wouldn’t step foot in America if you paid me.

Changed into blue dress and we drove to Chichester Theatre. It took an hour. Poor Dad didn’t feel well so when we arrived he had a sherry and a brandy to revive him. We sat on the grass and commented on how grumpy some old people look when others look so cheerful. Pa said this chap getting out of his car looked just like Toad: everyone resembles someone from Wind in the Willows!

Grandma and Grandpa arrived, Grandpa with his psychedelic tie. At 7 ‘The Unknown Soldier’ began; it was the best play I’ve seen since ‘Macbeth’. It shows the idiosyncrasies of war throughout history, and the mumbo-jumbo of religion. Peter Ustinov acted The Archbishop, more interested in women than God (!) and Clive Revill The General. Simon Ward was The Soldier, always unknown, and Prunella Scales the soldier’s wife. The Archbishop is laughing the whole time, he realises mankind is potty but he isn’t in despair. Ustinov (who wrote it) is marvellous. There was also The Rebel - with a super droopy moustache and hair as long as mine. I’d call him the artist, the one who sees war and religion for what they are. There was no scenery, just props, and steam rose from the trap-door to give the impression of the Roman Baths - brilliant. The interval was “Two acts of war separated by a truce for refreshments”!

I saw Grandpa laughing away, but it must be difficult for him, brought up to believe in the glory of war and he fought in it. I bet the majority of the audience would believe in ‘fighting for your country,’ but you can’t get people to reform their beliefs and ideas. It makes me so frustrated. I’d love to know some artistic types, but the only person I know like that is Pa. He’s fantastic. Had supper afterwards: open sandwiches, and strawberries and cream.

Peter Ustinov - multi-lingual humorist, satirist, actor, writer, raconteur and genius

Tuesday, 11 June

Hawkesworth has got a mini-skirt! Her skirts are usually 1” above her knee, but this one is almost 6”!!!

Mary Quant and Courrèges were experimenting with hems in 1964. Hems began to rise. By 1966, the mini skirt surged; by summer ‘67, it was skimming the bottom.

Hawkesworth was behind the times.

In January 1967, for the first time, I spotted a mini skirt 9” above the knee. A month later, my mother raised my hem from three inches to six. My parents thought this regrettable. I was glad I’d “taken the plunge.” That was September. We were turning up skirts the whole of that year, and by January ‘68 we were fed up with them. A month later, Ruth wore a maxi skirt to school; to be followed, memorably, by Sarah. No longer could teachers complain.

In French Conv. we discussed whether gentlemanly manners are old-fashioned. Some bloke in France thinks a husband and wife’s roles will one day be reversed!!! I think they should be equal myself.

Went home with Lucy. Saw a fab long-haired group of people in the High Street - rare for Epsom. We got the bus and walked from Hedge Corner. Had a staggering tea with chocolate shortbread, then I showed Lucy the pool. It’s such a pity she can’t have one - she loves swimming and I hate it. And it doesn’t seem fair her garden is a fifteenth the size of ours. Chump took a photo of us in the bog garden, where we picked some tiny yellow, orange and white flowers. Lucy did the most staggering arrangement in the lid of the yellow pot. We got out the orange tablecloth and the mats to match so the table would look gorgeous. Then we began.

Chump did the potatoes, I did the sauce, and Lucy did the chicken and beans. Dad said it was a memorable meal - Geline de Touraine Facon Ottoni with Pommes de Terre a la Creme! He was lovely and gay again, though he still doesn’t feel well. I cleared the table and washed the cutlery - Ma wouldn’t let me do more - then we listened to Dutronc and Pol. All the people who miss out on French music! It’s such a shame.

Wednesday, 12 June

Olivia Hussey in Zeffirelli's Romeo and Juliet, 1968

Glorious glorious heavenly weather the whole day. Makes me long for France and last year’s holiday even though I didn’t really enjoy it. Isn’t it a pity that you look back on things and remember them as more beautiful than they were. It’d be a lot better if it was the other way round.

Anya’s back. She showed me the latest Rave, which depresses me. There’s this article about Olivia Hussey. She says the happiest moment in her life was when she found out the boy she liked, liked her too. The thing is, he’s a French singer that she met in Rome… and we think it’s Pol. Some people get all the luck and she’s eight months younger than me. I’d give quite a lot to be Olivia Hussey.

There’s also an article on Peter Tork, who sounds terribly nice. The girls he likes have to have strong personalities and be natural, “not hidden beneath 3” of makeup”! Then he said, “I’m not mad on ‘popular’ girls; I like the type who stay at home and read - they’re the girls who are really worth knowing.” Oh I so need to be appreciated. I need appreciation as much as love.

We all lazed on the terrace at break. Vanessa was wearing a winter skirt and I asked her why - it’s because Mrs Simmons has told her off about her suede one. So I told her about my incident with my orange dress, “too short and too tight”. “Silly old bag,” said Ruth, “it’s because she’s had the menopause”!!!

Letter at home from Henri. He sounds awfully nice and I’m going to write back to him. I nearly died at what he said though. “I told Camille it’d be high time for him to write to you but he is fairly at a loss because he is so busy, ceaselessly keeping himself informed by the radio and newspapers.... Paris is quite like a civil war now. Love from Henri.” Ma and me were in fits.

Then we all left for Guildford Theatre and ‘My Giddy Aunt’ - slapstick musical comedy stuff. Pa was bored but I let myself go; if you accept it for what it is it’s very enjoyable. Quite a good set: English drawing room in India. Wish Pa was easier - he could have enjoyed it.

Thursday, 13 June

Staggering weather. Fabulous double lecture by Mrs Urquart. T S Eliot is fantastically difficult but fantastic; what he’s getting at is man’s search for something divine. This is the beautiful ending to ‘The Love Song of J Alfred Prufrock’.

We have lingered in the chambers of the sea
By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown
Till human voices wake us, and we drown.

Delicious lunch outside: salad, Primula crisp breads, and an orange. Anya’s so lucky, Malcolm gave her ‘L’Important c’est La Rose’ for her birthday. She’s definitely converted him to French music.

Got bus down to town with Christa who has been offered a film part - absolutely fantastic. But she hasn’t taken it, her mother said she must get a degree first! I wish it had been me.

I’m so worried about how am I going to revise when we’re sailing this weekend. Thank heavens I’m not at school tomorrow.

Friday, 14 June

From 9.30 I worked non-stop on Othello - my neck was agony by the time I’d finished. I was on Act III Scene III and thought it was about 2.20, but I was two hours out. The time flew by - I was hoping to end by 5. I’m very worried about learning quotes. I don’t see how I’ll have the time.

She gave me for my pains a world of sighs.

She swore, in faith, ’twas strange, ’twas passing strange,

'Twas pitiful, ’twas wondrous pitiful.

She wished she had not heard it, yet she wished

That heaven had made her such a man.

This is the quote I love most.

In the evening Pa went to a Residents Committee meeting, and came back disillusioned by the way this country is being wrecked. Apparently he spoke pretty forcefully.

I hope we don’t go to the boat till tomorrow evening, or I’m sunk.

Saturday, 15 June

I didn’t want to go to the boat because of work, and then I got to thinking, I’m not interested in the boat anyway. Material goods mean nothing to me, nothing. I suppose it’s too early to really say how much they mean to me, but I imagine they mean pretty little. Having a boat, a garden, a tennis-court, a swimming-pool and two cars means nothing. What matters is your family and friends. And falling in love. I could live in a slum if I had a boy I loved.

2020: I’d be less happy in a slum now, even with Bill Nighy. Nor could I give up my home comforts or cafe lattes. But the trappings of wealth discombobulate me still. A week’s holiday in a country cabin, with a patchwork quilt and a compost loo, would thrill me more than any hotel. I prefer the wonky apple to the shiny one. The slow simple life pleases me, and always will.

Beautiful drive down to the boat. The smells of the countryside in an open car… the hay is heaven. Down one little lane we saw a deer flit - it was gorgeous!

Got to the Marina; some rather good boys there. Waiting to go into the lock was a long-haired boy on a boat called ‘Viking’. I think he was shy though, he turned away whenever I looked at him! Sailed to Yarmouth. I sat up in the bows with the rug, I tried to learn La Fontaine but I kept falling asleep. The setting sun make me feel very romantic. I imagined I was in a film.

Who should be in Yarmouth but Roly! He had three other chaps with him so we had drinks aboard. Opened a bottle of Champagne with a huge pop! Then went ashore. Rather a lot of snazzies in The Bugle, I wish we could have stayed. Everybody was admiring a 1920s Bentley outside. Roly and the chaps came to us for coffee after supper, which was super fun. They were all staggered by my Diary.

When they left we discussed how awful it is for me living in a village. But I suppose it’s my fault that I’ve got no friends: I never went to the parties. The trouble is, I’ve changed since then. For the last two years, no, a bit less than that, I have bitterly regretted not going out.

Sunday, 16 June

Woke up in the night as Pa was mooing in his sleep.

Left immediately after breakfast and had a fantastically quick sail. I did German vocab most of the way, though Chump and me shared the rugs and one hot water-bottle and got giggly like five year olds. Got to the yacht basin at 2.30.

I’ve decided I’m against the Royal Family, not just indifferent any more. The reason is, when they do have an effect on the country, it’s a bad one. Pa was saying today that Prince Albert did more harm than good. I haven’t got any facts to back up my theory, but I know having a monarchy encourages snobbery. At least, it doesn’t discourage it. The idea of a privileged family ‘presiding’ over England is quite chronic. So many people are taken in.