Monday 25th October 1943

Paced 28 furlongs.

Continuing the subject of that solid wedge business, it is very handy at meal-times as, with any luck we three can get a table together. Thus we can make friendly, scathing or whimsical comments upon our fellow diners at other tables. Also, we thus avoid having to eat beside someone repulsive ie one who eats meat and vegetables with his hands, one who stinks of garlic, one who dips his fish and bread sandwiches in his tea or one who talks too much and too fatuously (like that RAF waste, The Stinker or Sapper Parkes).

Looking round the dining hall at Jews of all races, Arabs, Poles, British, Greeks, Yugo-Slavs, Pacific Islanders and Indians, I came to the conclusion that no nation has worse table manners than the Greeks. As it says (humorously but how truly!) in “Foreigners” - “the Greeks are the pre-eminent Dagoes”.

Today seems rather gloomy – not as regards myself, but in general. Had a long conversation with Gutwillig through the wire. He is walking about in blues again now, but he seems not one atom better for his long sleep; his hands, feet and shoulders still jerk and twitch.

“They're putting barbed wire round three more wards,” said a friend, on pay parade. “How I hate all this barbed wire,” said someone else, “it's so depressing.”
“Any rumours of a boat yet?” “None at all. We're here for good.”