On April 23, 1991, my mother pulled me up and told me that I was driving her crazy talking about Japan and she said to me that whenever somebody asks me how I am, I will say, "Good thanks, I'm doing an assignment." And she said that people weren't interested in the latter.

I remember, on June 17, 1990, we were going on holiday and another couple came with my family. The only nice thing they did was bring the man's sister. The man's sister was bookish, like me, and she enjoyed art. The stub-axle on the rental caravan that we were towing broke, and I was concerned about my books. (The local police officer happened to be passing by, and he went and got the local mechanic and some of our things had fallen out onto the road. I wanted something to read while we were stuck there). The woman snapped at me, "Peter, stop worrying about your books!" I only asked once. But she gave me their copy of the newspaper to read.

I didn't talk to the couple about very much, especially because I have a special interest in Japan, and the man, despite having a Japanese vehicle, was a racist sod. He learnt, after his mother died, from his sister who came on the trip, that his great-grandfather was Chinese, and sadly, that made him more racist.