Thursday 4th August 1938

Rain this evening. First time the weather has broken since we came here. Had half-an-hour's Pontoon with Sgt. Smith and Fayers whilst lightening flashed and rain drummed on the tent. “Blimey!” said I, “If the tent is struck, we’ll all die in the midst of sin!” “There’s many a true word spoken in jest,” said Upton solemnly. “You bloody, miserable bleeder” growled Woolmer.

I won 7 1/2d and the tent has not, so far, been struck. They call me “a bloody boy” and comment upon my bleeding raucous laugh and “..the precise way in which” I utter the phrase “fucking”.