No go. Not a single Peasant's cart will take me. They will neither come to me here nor call for me there. We have ‘phoned every garage and stable in the neighbourhood. It's a cursed disappointment, but I shall just have to ‘wait a bit.’

I wish we were all in France with a real Xmas party in prospect—snow, huge fire, a feast, wine, old, old French tunes on a guitar, fancy dresses, a Tree, and everybody too happy for words. Instead we are wondering whether to give the postman 5 shillings, or, since we have only been here since August, will 3 be enough? Etc. Etc. Etc. This cursed country would take the spirit out of a Brandied Cherry.