Sunday 25th December 1938

Christmas breakfast. And a little packet beside both of our plates. Picked brussel sprouts with Mr Nixon. A walk by the Severn. In mistletoe country. Great bunches in the trees. Christmas dinner. “Are ye beat?” Nixon would say with scathing, amused surprise if one’s eating slowed-down.

Afterwards my wife and I sat in the lounge. It was lovely. Angel sitting close beside me told me stories of famous painters – Rembrandt especially – whilst the darkness came. Warm. Dark, except for the fire’s flickerings. No hurry, nothing to worry or wonder about. Angel with me, talking softly about wonderful people.
Once I fell asleep and missed the middle of a story. Lovely; to gradually fall asleep whilst a loved one’s voice whispered and to awake gently whilst the same voice still whispered! Luxurious. I wanted tea-time because I could do with a cup of tea, yet wanted this peace to go on for ever without interruption.

After tea, in the dining room, Angel obligingly related that part of Rembrandt’s story which I’d missed. We went back to the lounge. I got out a dictionary and looked at it, thinking aloud, deliberately discussing dull and unimportant things. “By centigrade, water boils at 100 degrees but by Fahrenheit at 212 degrees…”
With her head on my shoulder Angel fell asleep!