Air-raid warnings, of which there are now half a dozen or thereabouts every 24 hours, becoming a great bore. Opinion spreading rapidly that one ought simply to disregard the raids except when they are known to be big-scale ones and in one’s own area. Of the people strolling in Regent’s Park, I should say at least half pay no attention to a raid-warning . . . . . Last night just as we were going to bed, a pretty heavy explosion. Later in the night woken up by a tremendous crash, said to be caused by a bomb in Maida Vale[1]. E. and I merely remarked on the loudness and fell asleep again. Falling asleep, with a vague impression of anti-aircraft guns firing, found myself mentally back in the Spanish war, on one of those nights when you had a good straw to sleep on, dry feet, several hours rest ahead of you, and the sound of distant gunfire, which acts as a soporific provided it is distant.
[1] A suburb of London straddling NW8 and W9, about a mile from where Orwell was living in Chagford Street. Peter Davison
Orwell Diaries 1938-1942 
The boring Blimp operating the Air Raid Siren would have to be the first to go when the Revolution begins, I suppose.
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Berlin:
Brushing aside the misgivings of his generals and admirals, Hitler has given orders for Operation Sealion, the invasion of England, to go ahead. Göring has promised to destroy the fighter defences in the south of England in four days and the rest of the RAF in two or three weeks. So the Fuhrer says that he will decide on the invasion date in the next fortnight.
I am finding him to me oh so smug and oh so superior. I don’t think these events were “boring” to the thousands 0f people who lost loved ones and/or had their homes destroyed.
I realize that this is his diary and perhaps he would have been more sympathetic had he known his thoughts would be published someday.
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