At nine o’clock I had my three-hour Art exam. I didn’t expect to do as well as in the mock and I don’t think I did. The first questions I answered (on fresco and the “hallmarks of a good painting”) were incoherent, dislocated and didn't flow; I just couldn’t think straight and kept on crossing words out or adding them. I got into it a bit more on the last two questions on abstract art and the relevance of art history to practical artwork, and I quite enjoyed myself.
Lee came back home with me after the exam and, in between cooking omelettes and making the house a tip, we slobbed around all afternoon watching TV.
More victorious TV crowing and newspaper overkill on the Falklands, much bandying about of “heroism,” “bravery,” “honour” and “our lads,” talk of the restoration of sovereign rights, etc. Over a thousand dead in all. Meanwhile God’s Chosen People continue their murderous progress in Beirut.
More soccer; Scotland 5, New Zealand 2. Hungary have just beaten El Salvador 10-1. Dad is cantankerous and constantly moans about everything and nothing. . . .
Grant rang, and when he said how well he’d done on the Paper 2 English question on Conrad I was filled with a sudden sense of failure. I’m going over on Sunday. We're planning a summer trip to Compendium Bookshop in London; much to do, books to read, paintings to see, records to hear, groups to see.