Have been unable for some days to buy another volume to continue this diary because of the three or 4° stationers’ shops in the immediate neighbourhood, all but one are cordoned off because of the unexploded bombs.
Regular features of the time: neatly swept-up piles of glass, litter of stone and splinters of flint, smell of escaping gas, knots of sighseers waiting at the cordons.
Yesterday, at the entry to a street near here, a little crowd waiting with an A.R.P. man in a black tin hat among them. A devastating roar, with a huge cloud of dust, etc. The man with the hat comes running towards the A. R. P. headquarters, where another with a white hat is emerging, munching at a mouthful of bread and butter.
The man with the black hat: “Dorset Square, sir.”
The man with the white hat: “O.K.” (Makes a tick in his note-book.)
Nondescript people wandering about, having been evacuated from their houses because of delayed-action bombs. Yesterday two girls stopping me in the street, very elegant in appearance except that their faces were filthily dirty: “Please, sir, can you tell us where we are?”
Withal, huge areas of London almost normal, and everyone quite happy in the daytime, never seeming to think about the coming night, like animals which are unable to foresee the future so long as they have a bit of food and a place in the sun.