2 January 1933 – 8 January 1933

This is a little out of place,* but then so am I. We are up for Angelica’s party last night and I have half an hour to spend before shooting in the new Lanchester (not ours—one lent) back to Rodmell. We have been there just short of one fortnight and I ate myself into the heart of print and solitude—so as to adumbrate a headache. And to wipe off the intensity of concentration trying to re-write that abominable dog Flush in 13 days, so as to be free—oh heavenly freedom—to write The Pargiters. I insisted upon a night of chatter.