2nd May 1942

Took Robin for a run to Fingringhoe this afternoon.  Molly Blomfield came with me, so that she could report to her sister [about Robin] when they meet.  I am afraid she did not enjoy herself very much, as Robin is not quite used to traffic yet, and turned us round onto the pavement just by Old Heath “Bell”, because he saw a Rowhedge bus.

However, he went very well, full trot all the way, up and down hill.  We called at Fingringhoe Hall, where he was much admired.  We had to get back at 5.30, as Molly had to go on duty early, all ambulance drivers are now working double shifts.

On duty alone tonight, feeling rather depressed, but not quite so scared as I have been several times recently.  Went on the roof, to see a glorious orange sunset.  It has been a beautiful day.  There is still not a drop of water or sand on the roof.  No planes about.  None came over last night either, and on Thursday nearly a quarter of the attacking force was destroyed.

Hull apparently has no intention of doing any more museum work at all.  He is actually not on the premises more than 8 hours a week, and does no fire-watching at all.  Under the circumstances, I really do not think I can go on much longer.  When I think of the work I could get done away from this ruin, - done in comfort, it makes me realise what a fool I am to stay here night after night, often in a sweat of fear, when nobody, not a single soul, comes to see whether I am there or not.

Hull’s madness comes and goes in spasms.  I have only just heard that a few weeks ago he packed the whole of the Museum’s collection of Roman bronze fibulae into coarse cooking pots, and buried them in the Vaults, on the W. side of Wheeley’s Passage.  The only persons supposed to know this secret are Chapman and Poulter.  I have never heard of such a piece of nonsense, such insanity.  And apparently nothing can be done to stop him.

I can hear a plane going over now, fairly low, probably an RAF going across the sea, or else a night-fighter on patrol.