Dull day, fog getting thicker towards the evening. Spent the afternoon carting fodder down to Bourne Mill. Old Bob is incredibly filthy, but seems very fit and happy. The donkey bounces along like a great teddy-bear.
Just as I was congratulating myself that these foggy nights ensure us no little peace and quiet, the sirens sounded at about quarter to 6. I was in Cyril Cook’s at the time, buying rations, and the fog was so thick that it was impossible to see across the road. It seemed quite incredible that planes could fly in such weather, but the Germans seem to be able to do anything. One of the sirens kept sounding a long piercing blast long after all the others had finished. No sound of any planes, although the all-clear was not given until half past 7. I sometimes think that the police forget there is an alarm in operation. Very few planes come over at night now, and not very many by day.
As I cycled up Queen St., I saw an ambulance standing outside the police-station, and a young girl limping into the building, supported by a St. John’s man and a constable. It looked very dim and mysterious, in the light of a few torches.