Sunday 14th October 1934

A parade of Church lads marched down the High Street, swaggering ridiculously, martial music making drums roll in the blood.

Worked comfortably whilst Walter slept in a chair beside the fire. Lecture notes and all that. Clad in grey bags and a sport shirt, pipe in mouth.

Late evening, work done. Put my books away, jumped on the bike and rode into the swift wind. Freshness. My teeth had just been cleaned, too. Came to the cross roads on Chobham Common. It was here that an old gypsy woman said, “You’ll be lucky”. Here, too, I once paused to light a Turkish cigarette, cursed and rode on.
Now I light my pipe. Bleak rough night around; twinkling headlights. I came to the clump of firs above the road. Drove the machine up the bumpy slope and reached them triumphantly, pipe still alight. (I saw it’s smoke curling against the light horizon)
Splendidly alone for a few minutes, with rushing wind in the tree tops, whistling wind around the slender stems.