The gramophone has just “put the wind up us” by emitting a long dreary preliminary wail just like one of Fritz’s big shells coming over.
Who, by the way, was the man (Lourd I think) who used to do grotesque drawings of horses stampeding towards some miserable little human? The other night on picquet I had to hay-up the animals at midnight and was vividly reminded of his work – a sea of groping necks, flattened ears, and grotesquely protruding lips – and me squished in the middle, kicking wherever there was space for my boot, trying to tie the hay-nets to the picket rope, whilst half a dozen big jaws jerked it this way and that.
Back for my washing – had a fearsome palaver in rusty French with the old dame, who had mislaid several garments and swore I’d never left them.
Walk March 