Monday 29th March 1943

I was detailed to go to the occupational therapy centre this morning. A ghastly place, full of men fiddling with bits of wood and tin – hammering, sawing and filing and painting, in an absorbed manner. Such an occupation is even more hateful than the universal Army “cleaning-up”, for when you are busy cleaning things, your brain is not occupied and you can at least think of something pleasant. So after half an hour or so of misery, I came away.

Even writing this has been an effort. I can't do anything. I feel as hopeless as I was when I first went into hospital at Damascus.