Like the echo of a nightmare. I was shouting at Peter and Corey—hardly an unusual event. I shout at them too much, I know that. When they are not around I think, From now on I will be different, I will be a better father, and ten minutes after they reappear I’m shouting at them again. But this is the first time I have recognized his voice, his rage, coming out of my own mouth. Not that my anger wasn’t justified. Their behaviour is intolerable; it is like a dentist drilling. The constant noise, the continual yelling and crashing about, make it impossible to concentrate on anything. This afternoon was a prime example. I had been waiting all week for a chance to look at the books on Rome that Betty Parry got for me from the central library in Toronto. She has pulled strings on my behalf—I believe she said I was doing research, which is stretching things—and they have extended the borrowing period from three weeks to six, but today is Saturday, which means that already one whole week has passed without my being able to do more than flip through the pages.
