Wednesday, 4 January.

I am keeping this diary especially for you Winnnie. I find I have to write such stilted letters to you in Canada, on account of the censor, that you will know very little about us during these war years. So I intend, D.W., to send what I have written after the war is over.

We had a very nice Xmas, but no jollification of any sort. We had the Friday, Saturday and Sunday holiday, which was much better than having to go straight to work on Boxing Day as we have done for the past 2 years. I went out to tea Boxing Day, and on Sunday John [her brother, from Luton] arrived just as I was serving dinner and stayed until after tea. We let him hear my new records, ‘Variations on a Theme of Handel’s’ by Brahms, played by [pianist] Solomon; it takes 3 12” records. Also [her other brother] Jim's new records: Schubert's ‘Impromptu in A flat’ and a Polonaise of Chopin’s.

Before I go any further, Winnie, I must tell you that we are able to have a very good musical education in Bedford. After the intensive Bombing of London the BBC musical section moved to Bedford. They commandeered the Corn Exchange, various Sunday Schools, School Halls, and even the Gas Works recreation hall in Queen's Park.3 Some of the concerts, such as the fortnightly Symphony Concert, are public. Others are by invitation only. Just before Xmas I was at a Symphony Concert conducted by Sir Henry Wood, and on the Sunday evening I was at an invitation concert conducted by Adrian Boult in the Bedford School Hall. This is called a studio concert and you are not allowed to applaud.

John says he has just bought a piano. I am anxious to go through to Luton to try it.

I spent last weekend at the garden. The 2-mile cycle ride to it was very peaceful, with no cars on the road. Two herons were flapping about near Bromham Bridge, and I got off my bike to watch them, also to take breath after fighting a high wind. When I opened the door of the garden hut what a sight met my eyes. Rats had been having a Christmas party with our potatoes. What wasteful creatures they are. There was a pile of potato crisps made by the rats by the door.