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Your postcard from Paris has just come. Why it has taken so long God only knows. I felt certain you'd have sent me one from there, yet yesterday I gave up all hope of getting one—indeed of hearing at all until you were back in London. I feel quite different with this postcard. When I die, just before the coffin is screwed up, pop a letter in. I shall jump up and out….

L. M. has broken my thermometer. Good. I got another for 12 francs, which seems to play the same tune, though the notes are not so plain. “I was pulling your cupboard away from the nets and it just rolled on to the floor.” I suppose in Rhodesia you just have notches on a bamboo or a tchetchetchetche branch.

I have been out since 9 o'clock. The sea is divine. It's very hot. All last night I chased the midges Buzzing in the nets afar Each one bearing, as it kindled, Message of the open war. (Macaulay). It's perfect except for the ‘afar.’ They are a scourge here, now; in hundreds. On dit that they will go when the fruit goes, and that flowers in the house are fatal for them. Well, what a silly country!

I started a big story yesterday. I don't think it's very good, but I am going straight on with it, whatever it is like, just for the practice and for getting into my stride….