Sunday
Dull and cloudy. This kind of weather seems to keep both air forces fairly quiet, so there were very few planes over today. Fed all the animals, then writing until teatime. Mr and Mrs Nichols from Lawford Hall came to tea, driving up in their magnificent Rolls Royce. He was most amusing, and she was very handsome and charming. I believe her sister married either a brother or a cousin of the Queen. Much talk about driving. She is going to buy a horse for the phaeton, which is to be repainted as soon as possible.
Nichols said he had to go to Stoke-on-Trent last Sunday, to address an audience of 3,000 on the war effort.
A lot of talk at tea time about the grinding of flour and home-made bread. Everybody in this district is very keen on it.
This morning I had felt quite resigned to my firewatching duty tonight, but by tea I was irritable and annoyed at the prospect of leaving the peace and comfort for the cold cell and the chance of a raid. I decided to shirk. Then I phoned Holly Trees. No answer. Then the Fire Guard office. No answer. Finally the police, who made no effort to reply for nearly five minutes. I became quite anxious and asked the operator if he was sure it was the right number. I heard him say “Colchester, is that 4444?” and Colchester answered “Yes, but they don’t reply. Perhaps they’ve all gone to the pictures.” At last they did answer, and I gave a message for Poulter, to say that I was not very well. As a result, within half an hour I had violent stomach pains!
Wrote out part of a story, “Street Scene in
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