Nott told me today that yesterday afternoon there had been a strike at Paxman’s over some change in overtime rates. It only lasted an hour and a half. “And do you know”, said N. “they let the – get away with it! Instead of getting the soldiers in to shoot a few of the buggers”.
A most glorious sunset tonight. I was down at Bourne Mill and saw the sun, a pure golden orb, sinking down behind the hill, colouring the sky with sheets of golden light, so that every tree on the pond’s margin showed its bare branches like black lace against a gold brocade cloth. The water of the pond turned golden too, streaked with dark lines where the ripples moved the surface. And all the air was still, no traffic on the road, no clamour of tanks, but the faint lowing of a cow down the valley at Cannock Mill, and the sound of a horse trotting along Old Heath Road.
Weather extraordinarily warm for the time of year.
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