FURTHER EXTRACTS from my diary of the late sixties.

Friday, October 22nd, 1968

My elder sister Noeleen (24) has condescended to briefly forsake the delights of Dublin, where she works in a secretarial pool for a firm of solicitors, and spend the weekend with her family in Ballina.

She has her boyfriend Jerome in tow. He has been repeating Part Four of the accountancy exams for about seven years now.

Though Noeleen is going out with Jerome for at least six months I can see straightaway from his narrowed eyes and constricted way of walking that she is still denying him the normal fulfilment a man needs from a woman. Despite the reception I got last time I broached the subject with Noeleen, I will clearly have to bring up once again her bourgeois notions about sex.

Saturday

After her holiday, Miss Cartwright is due back in the library the week after next. How can I face her after the debacle of our so called supper date in her home? Even now I cannot bring myself to commit the details to paper.

Sunday

Mother went to her usual neurotic extreme during the weekend of placing Noeleen and Jerome in rooms as far away from each other as possible (not very far in our modest home) but still made sudden late night forays into the hall, pretending a need to go to the toilet (15 times?). Her transparent ploy was quite unnecessary given Noeleen's obstinate virginity.

Last night I accused my sister of using her sexuality as a subtle weapon against Jerome. "Subtle is right," she says, "do you think he'd prefer a kick in the arse?"

Poor Jerome. He must soon be driven into the arms of another.

Monday

Mother is aware I have not attended Saturday night confession for four months. I try to explain that atheists are not in the habit of going to confession. Wait until they get cancer, then they'll go, she says "or leprosy".

A Ballina leper colony might at least have a few individuals in it.

Tuesday had a chat with Jerome before he left. It has been mutually agreed, he told me ponderously, that intimacy between himself and Noeleen will occur only if and when he passes Part Four of his accountancy exam. I am horrified, but Jerome thinks it is a reasonable deal (an "incentive"). I can see he will probably make quite a successful accountant if he can remain chaste for about another 10 years. If he were a priest he would at least get credit for such pointless self-denial.

All this is deeply depressing. Why do people make such a big thing of sex and sexual attraction?

Wednesday

There is an extremely good looking new waitress in Moyletts' Cafe.

Thursday

Father has achieved a minor promotion to the post of Assistant Quality Controller (Plastic Footballs) in the local toy factory. He and mother are greatly pleased, but I feel obliged to point out to him that he is wilfully distancing himself from the working classes with whom he has stood shoulder to shoulder for so long. For far too long, is his response.

The pair of them are off to the Moy Hotel tonight to celebrate with some of their cronies. No doubt mother will ask for champagne, which does not agree with her.

Friday

All too predictably, mother has spent the entire day in bed "with her nerves". With her hangover from three glasses of cheap champagne would be a more honest evaluation. As a result we have all had to get our own dinners.

The kitchen, I now realise, is hopelessly laid out. There seems to be no logic in terms of where things go. Perhaps mother may be able to put things back in their allegedly proper places. The rest of us have had to give up, and the mess can hardly be blamed on us.

Saturday

Sexuality is of course an important part of all our lives, yet I am shocked to discover that my diary entries for the last month have dealt with little else. Am I perverted or just over sexed? I must begin to read Freud. Self knowledge is surely the key to life.

Meanwhile I suffer agonies of frustration. The Catholic Church certainly has a lot to answer for. There is probably not a woman within 80 miles of here with an open attitude to sexuality. The effect on the Irish male's emotional life is surely incalculable.

Sunday

I must soon put down in black and white the embarrassing details of my evening with Miss Cartwright. Otherwise I cannot call this an honest diary, or continue to look myself in the face.