Sunday, December 26th., London.
Two thoroughly bad nights over Christmas, full of the church clock.
Still I wrote over 4000 words of my novel in 3 days, with lots of preoccupations.
I gave my Christmas dinner last night at Claridge's. Marguerite, Legros and Lorna Lewis who told me she was twenty and a half, and Welsh. A vast crowd; the two lounges added to the restaurant. many family parties. Impossible not to contrast this show with the financial crisis now existing. A crude contrast of course. But interesting to think of the apprehensions in the minds of many hosts there. Think also of all those who, having survived the war, struggle just to make ends meet let alone aspire to elaborate Christmas celebration.
Crackers, paper caps, and much throwing of paper missiles.
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