Sunday. July 14. Though this is a diary, it is for you all at home, for interest and amusement after the war. But one thing you will never quite fully appreciate; the delight we have in self torture, in conjuring up visions of meals we might be eating, were we home. We eat enough here to keep from dying, but we are constantly hungry and get weaker every day. Today I feel much better in myself, but I really haven’t the strength to walk round the square more than once. We arrange any little business we have to do so that we need not climb up and down stairs more than necessary – just as if we were a lot of old ladies. This morning we discussed a probable breakfast. I plumped for:
Banana Fritters
Fish Cakes and Tomato Ketchup (Salmon)
Bacon and eggs. Fried Bread
(Bread) butter, marmalade, Toast
(Coffee) Café au lait.
I must ask Tootsie to have it as a treat one morning après la guerre.
Instead of which I had – black bread: 3 ozs. Coffee.
Rumours of 400 parcels at the station.
