23 March 1936 – 29 March 1936

A very good weekend. Trees coming out: hyacinths; crocuses. Hot. The first spring weekend. Then we walked up to Rat Farm—looked for violets. Still spring here. Am tinkering—in a drowsy state. And I’m so absorbed in Two Guineas— that’s what I’m going to call it. I must very nearly verge on insanity I think, I get so deep in this book I don’t know what I’m doing. Find myself walking along the Strand talking aloud.

Now it’s Sunday and I’m still forging ahead. Done Eleanor in Oxford Street for the 20th time this morning. I’ve plotted it out now and shall have done by Tuesday 7th April, I tell myself. And I can’t help thinking it’s rather good. But no more of that. One bad head this week, lying prostrate.