The Same to the Same
15, Whittington Terrace, Bayswater 20th September, 1928
Dear Olive,
You ought to thank your lucky stars, my dear, that you are the sort of person for whom “a good husband” is enough. But then, of course, Mother never brought us up to be brainy. We always lived so quietly at home, and what you’ve never had you don’t miss, as the saying goes. I can’t say I should have cared for an office job myself, though perhaps it would have been better for my health if I had had something to occupy my mind. But I am really feeling much better now, and I am getting free of that dreadful sensation of being obliged to go back and see if I really have done things when I know perfectly well I have. I know you say everybody feels like that sometimes, but you don’t know what it’s like to be compelled to do it! The other night I got the idea that I had left the beef out on the kitchen table, and though I really remembered quite clearly shutting it up in the meat-safe, I simply had to creep downstairs in my dressing-gown and make sure, otherwise I shouldn’t have got a wink of sleep. Still, that has been the only relapse for about a fortnight now.
As a matter of fact, we have had quite a lot of thrills this week—very good for us—occupies our minds, you know. The upstairs tenants have arrived!! Two young men—the artist and a poet! They came in the day before yesterday, and oh, my dear, the bumpings and noises! They brought a grand piano—I only hope they won’t be playing it all night, because I’m simply good for nothing if I don’t get my sleep before midnight—and there’s a gramophone as well. Why can’t people be content with the wireless, which shuts down at a reasonable hour?