The Journal of a Disappointed Man

September 5. ... I was so ashamed of having to fall back upon such ignominious publications for my literary efforts that on presenting him with two copies, I told the following lie to save my face: "They were two essays of mine left over at the beginning of the War, you know. My usual channel became blocked so I had to have recourse to these." "Where do you publish as a rule?" he innocently asked. "Oh! several in the Manchester Guardian," I told him out of vanity. "But of course every respectable journal now has closed down to extra-war topics." I lie out of vanity. And then I confess to lying--out of vanity too. So that one way or another I am determined to make kudos out of myself. Even this last reflection is written down with an excessive appreciation of its wit and the intention that it shall raise a smile. September 9. Still nothing to report. The anxiety is telling on us all. The nurse has another case on the 22nd. I looked at myself in the mirror this morning--nude, a most revolting picture. An emaciated human being is the most unlovely thing in creation. Some time ago a smart errand boy called out "Bovril" after me in the street. On my way to the Station met two robust, brawny curates on the way to the daily weekday service--which is attended only by two decrepit old women in black, each with her prayer-book caught up to her breast as if she were afraid it might gallop off. That means a parson apiece--and in war time too.