regarded the Clematis Room. What earthly use was it, ordering boxes of kippers to be sent to people who were all getting done in, while everyone at home humbugged about with polite platitudes? … Birdie Mansfield wrote from Yorkshire; he had been invalided out of the Army. “I’m fed to the teeth with wandering around in mufti and getting black looks from people who pass remarks to the effect that it’s about time I joined up. Meanwhile I exist on my provisional pension (3 s. a day). A few days’ touring round these munition areas would give you food for thought. The average conversation is about the high cost of beer and the ability to evade military service by bluffing the Tribunals.”
I looked at another letter. It was from my servant (to whom I’d sent a photograph of myself and a small gramophone). “Thank you very much for the photo, which is like life itself, and the men in the Company say it is just like him. The gramophone is much enjoyed by all. I hope you will pardon my neglect in not packing the groundsheet with your kit.” What could one do about it? Nothing short of stopping the War could alter the inadequacy of kippers and gramophones or sustain my sense of unity with those to whom I sent them.