18 February 1925
Last night I was drunk – very drunk – and feel a little the better for it. The sherry and whisky I had ordered in Oxford came. Before dinner Gordon and I drank the sherry – which brought back a thousand sentimental associations. After dinner we took the whisky to Watson’s room and I drank about half of it while Watson and Dean drank a quarter each. The result was that I was sick. I have not yet met Amy and am rather unwilling to do so. I think she will not report it to the proprietor Banks. The debauch has caused something of a feud in the common-room – I must confess to finding Chaplin somewhat tiresome.
Today I have had a delightful afternoon and evening. I went to Rhyl for the afternoon and got permission to stay out to dinner. I bought a lot of things which I do not particularly want and spent most of the time in the hands of a most interesting barber who talked of phallic symbolism and the Gnostics. A lovely dinner and good wines and brandy. On Saturday I went to the Naples of the North with one of the ushers called Gordon and had dinner at the Grand Hotel. It was not very grand but there was some of the burgundy which I last drank on the regrettable evening when I went to the home of Lady Plunket – Clos de Vougeot 1911. A kind man took us home in an automatic carriage. No letter from Olivia, no shoes from Oxford, no money from anywhere.
On Sunday I started on an awful thing called week’s duty. It means that I have no time at all from dawn to dusk so much to read a postcard or visit a water-closet. Already – today is Tuesday, Shrove Tuesday – my nerves are distraught. Yesterday I beat a charming boy called Clegg and kicked a hideous boy called Cooper and sent Cooke to the proprietor. Yesterday afternoon I had my first riding lesson and enjoyed it greatly. It is not an easy sport or a cheap one but most agreeable. No letter from Olivia.
Yesterday in a history paper the boy Howarth wrote: ‘In this year James II gave birth to a son but many people refused to believe it and said it had been brought to him in a hot water bottle.’
* Over de dagboeken van Evelyn Waugh
* Evelyn Waugh (1903-1966)