Tuesday 6th July 1943

The ward is steadily filling. 32 patients, of which 22 are foreigners... One walks down the long row of beds past so many neurotic men, - trembling violently, weeping, glaring defiantly or cowering weakly. It is very distressing indeed.

Store's neurosis has been extended to a fear of smells now. He is constantly crying out, “What a horrible smell! They won't even let me die with dignity!” He notices this smell especially in the dining hall – a smell of death and decay – which hardly improves the appetites of his companions. One good thing is that he's cut down his smoking – partly because he thinks his cigarettes are poisoned, partly because of their “terrible smell.” He leads a nightmare existence because the simplest things now hold a sinister and awful significance or are wrapped in sombre symbolism. He is frightened if the electric lights flicker; or when the walls become warm from the sun; or if someone asks for a cigarette...

“Perhaps they will send me to Cyprus...” he said just now. “Why Cyprus, John?” “Don't you understand? A small island in the Mediterranean, symbolising death.”

It is ghastly here, with Store and other like him. In the mornings the lavatories are nauseating; half these patients haven't the sense or decency to flush the pan after use. The dining hall is rotten too; there is always much noise and people leave their food – not only bread but greasy meat and vegetables – lying al over the tables. I can't bear to go to the canteen...

This hospital has never been worse than it is now.