Thursday 16th January 1936

Bitterly cold evening.

After supper, everyone else gone, Miss Rowlands and I sat over the kitchen fire, which was nearly extinct. Eventually, stole some wood from the oven and soon had a jolly blaze. I am now allowed to call Miss Rowlands by her first name – a strange Welsh one, Gwyneth, which means “whiteness”.

We discussed various theories; she’s rather good at that sort of conversation. As we talked, she leaned over the fire and prodded it with a poker. This was most soothing and dulled my intellect. We did not leave the fire until half past twelve!

(A filthy, untidy kitchen; remains of supper on the table. “But don’t you think” – tinkle of coal moved by the poker – “that one should follow one’s impulses?” Crunch of red embers. “Why – should we be compelled – to do work – we detest?”)

Delightful.