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I can’t have been a very good historian, at least from conventional point of view because my marks, although enough to carry me through a major did not single me out as a good student. Generally speaking (with the notable exception of Russian) I was a C+ student, partially because I insisted on marring my progress by parting with the conventional view of history and writing essays interpreting my subjects from a Marxist point of view.

This obviously didn’t go down very well with the establishment. The arts faculty moved to Ilam i n the second year of my studies. The new environment did not suit me in the least and once again I felt lonely and isolated and I remember walking between the buildings in cold windy weather not knowing a single soul. I also remember the sensation of feeling something akin to having a skullcap on. It was the closest that I felt to real depression. I found my social contacts outside the university and took solace by removing myself where I could from the mainstream and decided, despite the fact that I was ‘bourgeois’, from an ‘aristocratic’family to join the Communist Socialist Unity Party.

It gave me some sense of belonging within a society from which I felt estranged. There were still people who had experienced struggles from the 1930s, the war and whose worldview was created largely by the 1951 lockout dispute.

I also met my first girlfriend, Lesley Hurrell the same way. She was coming along to the New Zealand USSR Society out of cultural interests. We started to go out together on Saturday nights and I remember going to some of the wonderful films that came out in the 1970s and then going on to the only cafe that was open after the movies finished for hot chocolate. I remember her visiting me at my flat in Carlton Mill Road and then taking her back home to Shirley on the back of my Honda-50 scooter on icy, freezing-cold Christchurch nights – and this was a time when we used to frequently have pea super fogs that were so thick you couldn't see more than a few feet in front of you.

For the young rebel from a traditional family who was still basically wet between the ears, meeting Robyn and Ron was certainly a revelation and I spent many happy hours round at their place reading their books, eating rye bread for the first time in my life, learning how to develop film and print photos in their wonderful laboratory. There was an interesting wall at the back of their house for it not only housed their photographic laboratory but also a secret entrance to a space where they grew marijuana under artificial lighting. I continued to visit Soviet ships in Lyttelton and to improve my spoken Russian.

I have some clear memories of that time – many cups of tea and discussions with a good-natured first mate on the M/S Anyui, the (who was always the political commisar). I had the opportunity once to sit in on one of the obligatory political meetings where the commisar delivered a boring and not very heartfelt lecture on world affairs while the crew either knitted or played battleships, whichever was more appropriate. I also recall hi-jinks with the couple of seamen (one was the ship’s doctor) from Leningrad vessel. They had obviously made contact with a couple of the ladies of the port for I transported them over to somewhere in Christchurch where we had a party with copious quantities of vodka.