In spite of all good intentions, up very late again. Thick fog, but a few ‘planes went out. Worked all morning sorting papers and packing. Letter from dear Ann, which she wrote on Christmas Day. Sent me a leather bookmark. This is the first time I’ve seen her handwriting.
Went in to Colchester at 3, bitterly cold, and a thin low fog, the sun shining orange coloured through it. Thunderbolts were coming in to land, glittering in the sun, then sinking out of sight into the fog as they came over the field. Must be very terrifying to the pilots, having to land quite blind.
Had tea, went to stable, harnessed the jennet (with some difficulty) and brought home the big trunk from there to pack more books.
To Holly Trees, in the bright cold moonlight. Poulter says the “little man” is furiously angry about my letter on the blankets, and threatens all sorts of things.
Out to Boxted at 11, fog coming up over the moon, and the whole world white and still.