Sunday
Violent stormy night. Out at 9, and walked round the deserted
streets, rain clouds blowing up from the S.W.
Looked at the Museum and the nice houses in the Crescent. Must try and get rooms in one of them. An American lorry parked in the Market Place,
obviously been there all night. Noticed
one or two ancient names – “Hogshead
Lane ”, “Little Ship Street” (now Church Street ) “Love Lane ” by the
Churchyard.
Bought a Sunday paper – a serious
crisis between England and America can no
longer be concealed.
Back to hotel, and old Edwards
came in. Said he would take me to the
Museum, but he thought the caretaker “would not like it, as she is very
strict”. Asked me to tea. This afternoon reading and writing in the
lounge, while Salvation Army carol singers and band played “Good King
Wenceslas” by the river side. Some women
in the lounge were talking about workers near Norwich .
Went to Clarkson Avenue to tea. Crowds of Italians with young girls in the
Park. After we went round to Sandringham Avenue
to call on dear old Guy Pearson. He
looks very much like Father. Went back
to Curtis Edwards’, and a very pleasant looking woman came in, with a little
girl. I think her name was Dimmock or
something like that. Her husband is a
schoolteacher, now serving in Africa .
Went back to the hotel, old Edwards
warning me very solemnly about the danger of getting lost in the Park (200
yards wide!) in the “blackout”. He has
apparently never seen the street lamps are now lit. The church bells were ringing out for evening
service, and bombers were beginning to stream out from Lincolnshire .
A big noisy swearing crowd outside the cinema.
Had a poor meal, and spent the
rest of the evening reading, bed at 10.30, hoping for sleep.
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