Got into bed by 5.30, and was late in as usual, but fortunately Capt Folkard not there. No time to shave, and felt filthy.
Heavy gunfire towards
morning. Very hot and sunny. London
This afternoon a wretched creature called Hull (name of ill-omen) came down from the Ministry of Works to see about requisitioning the big house in New Town Road for a new office.
Went in with him, with my plans and details (seemed strange to stand in the room where I last saw my very dear friend A.G. Wright nearly 17 years ago, and to see the room where he died). This fellow Hull was very objectionable from the first, and when I said something about the allocation of a room for Committee use he said unpleasantly: “I’m afraid I can't possibly allow you to do that …” Whereupon I instantly shouted: “Well come and run the bloody War Agricultural Committee yourself!” tore up the plans, hurled the fragments at him, rushed from the room, slammed the door in his face and felt much better.
Walling was there at the time, looking like a sick cat, but the look on this man Hull’s face was even better.
This evening went to see “Snow White” again, first time since 1939. Enjoyed it. Called at home, Father very well, then had a coffee in a milk-bar in Pelham’s Lane. There was an American there, with one of the American WAACs, an elderly grey haired woman who looked well over 50. He was very rugged and weather beaten, and spoke with a very broad western accent, so broad that the girl behind the counter could not understand a word he said. He was rude and brusque to a degree, and everybody stared at him as if he was some sort of animal. He and the WAAC sat close together and nobody spoke to them or offered to help them.
Boxted at 9.30. Wind rising, almost a gale. Bed at 11.30, hoping for a quiet night. Very tired. Stories in press today suggesting that Hitler is mad or dead.