Raw, foggy morning. Called in at midday, she lay with her eyes open, and spoke in a whisper. Asked me again if I had enough to eat, ran her hand over my head and said “You’ve had your haircut” which I had.
When I went up town, I thought of all the streets and shops where Mother loved to go, the cafes where she drank tea and coffee, where she will never go again.
Papers full of gloom today over Churchill’s speech at the Guildhall yesterday.
This evening went to see the May’s about a housekeeper, but nothing doing, then called on Molly Blomfield at Trinity St, where my distress overcame me and we had a highly emotional scene, as I wept unrestrained, tormented by vain regrets. She was very kind although she has obviously suffered terribly over the death of her brother.
Later on phoned Dr Rowland, and he advised Mother being sent to the Infirmary. Tonight, in bed, I told Father, and he took it well, but said “Oh, it’ll kill her” and that he wished he was dead.
Brilliant moon tonight, yet no raids.