Foggy, cold, the tide flowing in grey and sluggish under the bridge. Crowd in the coffee-room for breakfast, because a lot of “commercials”, fat, pale Northerners, came in last night. Some of them were talking about the flying bombs near
just before Christmas, and the earthquake shock which followed about a week
later. Many people thought it was caused
by some super-bomb.
Went across to see the deep sewer trench in the Vicarage paddock, but nothing has been found yet, and no work done since the thaw. Water rises at about 5 feet, and they have much trouble and a lot of elaborate pumping machinery to keep it down.
Felt very sick in the afternoon, but better after tea, for which I had to go round to
Clarkson Avenue, to old Curtis
Back to office, wrote some letters, then invited myself downstairs to the Control Room, where there were only two girls on duty, to hear “Itma” on the radio, but not very good. Bed at 10.30 reading for an hour, listening to the sucking and gurgling of the tide rushing in under the bridge.