Fine, cold autumn morning with blue mist full of seagulls rising, falling. The flat is so high that you get a grand view right across the grass, marked off into odd shapes by narrow ashphalt paths, with figures of golfers or of passers by hurrying under umbrellas, dogs running and playing, right over to the Braid Hills and the blue distant hills far beyond that.
Above there is the sound of music and fiddle, from the apartment of the music teacher. Often the dull boom of a door slamming and the sound of hurrying footsteps on the stone stairs and then down the dark stone passage below. There are 6 flats in this block, all occupied by amusing characters.
To the Library for an hour this afternoon, reading papers. The war news seems gloomy, and still divers coming in every night. Not a word from Colchester so suppose all is fairly well.
Tonight had a haggis for supper, first I have ever tasted. Delicious. Drink far too much tea here.