Zeppelin hysteria

Monday, October 18th., Comarques, Thorpe-le-Soken.

Capt. K. and Capt. B. stationed here, recounted the Zeppelin attack on their camp in Epping Forest. It was apparently brought on by a light in the Officers' mess. It seems that the Zeppelin hung over the camp. It dropped several (4 or 5) explosive bombs right in the camp, a few feet (under 20) away from where K. actually was. None of these bombs exploded. They buried themselves 10 feet in the earth. They were excavated without accident. K. said the soldiers used pick and shovel in digging them out with perfect indifference to the danger. the Zeppelin also dropped a number of incendiary bombs which the soldiers put out as they fell. It seems to me that the fact that incendiary bombs were dropped shows that the Zep did not know that it was over a tented camp. The object of setting fire to tents is not clear at all, as the men could easily get away, and the damage would be inconsiderable. The explosive bombs weighed one hundredweight each, and the incendiary bombs about 15 lb each. K. said he could not assert that he actually saw the Zeppelin. He said the men saw whole fleets of Zeppelins. Apropos, Rickards related last night that Webster came across a crowd in the centre of which was a man pointing to the sky and raging excitedly: "There she is! She's hit! She's hit!" Webster said: "You think that is a Zep. but it's the moon." The crowd dispersed

Additionally for October 18th., see 'Time to write' -
http://earnoldbennett.blogspot.co.uk/2012/10/time-to-write.html

I can now do five full days of my own work at home, excluding Sunday. It is a great stroke of business, well managed by me, and I feel like a man suddenly enriched who is not quite ready with a scheme for spending. I hope to devote at least three whole days a week to "Anna Tellwright" and to resume this Journal with regularity. I shall cease now to work at such high pressure as I have been driving at during the last six months.

Out of my groove

Monday, April 4th., Rue de Calais, Paris.

Unable to write my journal at all these last few days. All ideas of writing were put out of my head, and so I suffered obscurely from that uncomfortable feeling which a person who lives in a groove has when he is shifted out of his groove.

Godfrey arrived on Thursday morning to spend Easter with me. The presence of another man always in the flat disturbed me, especially at times of dressing and undressing. He has slept badly on the sofa bed. This is, of course, another attempt to eliminate, or at least relieve, my speech impediment. I smile to myself now when I think that, when I was at Fulham Park Gardens, Godfrey used to come regularly and I referred to him as a 'pupil'. Was anybody fooled I wonder? The instruction I gave was that there must be "no interruption on any account" when he called. This went on for more than a year and I kept up the pupil pretence throughout. My family's explanation of the speech problem is that it arose when I crushed my fingers in a mangle. Others have suggested that there must be some early emotional scar, now deeply buried. Whatever the cause, the impact on my life has been considerable. I have sometimes felt that my brain is giving two orders at the same time, one dictating speech, the other not-speech. Often the defect has reduced me to silence when I wished to say something, and caused me to give a wrong impression, of excessive self-assertion, when I said it.

Friday afternoon, while I was resting and Godfrey out, there was a ring at the door and Webster appeared. He works in the Inland Revenue Department of the Treasury. He was over in Paris to meet a girl named Lavard. He and she came to tea on Friday and again on Sunday; they left this morning. We lunched with them at the Hotel Monsigny on Saturday.

I finished "Le Crime d'Orcival" on Thursday, and it leaves me with a high respect for Gaboriau.

I had a good long stroll yesterday to think about Journals as a genre within writing. Presumably this 'public' Journal is intended for others to read, and perhaps with an eye to publication at some future date. How reliable will it be as a mirror of my life and world? Writers have of course invented Journals. What about playing with a real Journal by purposeful editing or elaboration? That might be amusing!