Sunday. Dec 1. Heard from the Commissioner for the Repatriation of British Prisoners from Eastern Germany that we’re not likely to leave here before Dec. 8. Oh hell! Our patience is getting to its end, and our tempers wearing very thin.
Have recently taken a spare enamel pot (like unto the ones in which we cook porridge) to use as a jerry, to obviate my very painful necessity of traipsing down freezing corridors twice or three times a night. This I did, telling only Miller. This morning Gerson cooked a delightful and inimitable macaroni milk pudding in my jerry. Fortunately I wash it out pretty well. The pudding was very good.