sick and possibly dreamt about it, now it seems merely more boring than
most other things of the kind.

Up there Tommies and Honourables eat their lunch of sandwiches with lots
and lots of dead people in varying stages of decomposition all round. An
odour more hideous than anything you have ever imagined. But you get
used to it.

[Sidenote: TALKING ABOUT HOME]

"How unpleasant they are to-day," you say to anyone you are with.
And the answer is probably just a laugh. Then you go on (if things are
quiet) to discuss an imaginary day at home. You would smile.

We actually discuss everybody's clothes, the things in the room, the
shape of the fireplace, the look of the tea-things and the comfiness of
the chairs.

And we always end up by saying: "And then after that I shall do
absolutely _Nothing_ for a fortnight!"


_December 3._

December. Frost on the trees, all fairy-like in this dense mist. Not a
sound. The sun quite small and white and far away. And if we were on the
Cotswolds, I expect we should go out for a bit of a walk, just to warm
up, after breakfast.