10 April 1939 – 16 April 1939

I’ve done rather well at Roger considering: I don’t think I shall take two weeks over each chapter. And it’s rather amusing—dealing drastically with this year’s drudgery. I think I see how it shapes: and my compiling method was a good one. Perhaps it’s too like a novel. I don’t bother. No letters; no news; and my head too staked for reading. L. galloping through his book. I should like a holiday—a few days in France—or a run through the Cotswolds. But considering how many things I have that I like—What’s odd—(I’m always beginning like this) is the severance that war seems to bring: everything becomes meaningless: can’t plan: then there comes too the community feeling: all England thinking the same thing—this horror of war—at the same moment. Never felt it so strong before. Then the lull and one lapses again into private separation. But I must order macaroni from London.