Sunday 9th February 1936

Am writing this a day late, that is on Monday evening. (Actually I seldom am able to keep precisely up-to-date, nowadays. However, I don’t forget much that is really worth recording.)

Yesterday afternoon and evening I spent wandering around Limehouse. Dressed in my oldest clothes, no gloves, hands in pockets, a shabby coat buttoned up to the neck, shoulders rounded, I certainly did not look conspicuously aristocratic. One amusing incident proved my “disguise” to be good. I had slunk down an evil-looking lane which eventually proved to be a cul-de-sac. “What do yer want mister?” asked a child swinging on a lamp post. Her playmate looked me up and down, then answered on my behalf, “E want’s the work’ouse”. Delicious! The contempt of Pennyfields!

Later, I tried to find the way to Shadwell. I didn’t. Walked along a succession of dreary streets which seemed straight. I passed a road with a name I’ll remember, -“Glencall Road”. After tramping straight on (as I thought) for twenty minutes, I came again to Glencall Road.

So I went back to Limehouse, to a pub, where a man was spitting on the floor.