Venerdì, il 4 di Settembre, 1942
There’s a saying they have here, the best laid plans of mice and men. Or maybe it would be more accurate to say the best planned lays? Yes, I do think so.
The past few days have been gruelling. Between the usual War Bureau business, the disappearance of Claudien de Kernoël, The Quibbler and all attendant problems, and the burning of Medmenham Abbey, all the time that Edward and I had thought we might have to ourselves went up in smoke. I had thought I’d be ready for him to have his date tonight, but of course I wasn’t, and that was just too bad because they’ve waited twenty years and I agreed to it last week. But lately I’ve come to feel like a difference engine with legs, which is nobody’s fault but the Axis’.
Tonight I made a good supper for the four of us with the intention that later St John and I would leave Edward and Julian to their own devices, and we would go out to amuse ourselves elsewhere. It has ended up becoming a rather less substantial supper for seven. Amadeo Luna and Esteban García are here, and gods be praised, they are safe and whole. Priscilla Chattox is also here, and not very happy about it.
I have only a moment before I have to go back downstairs and go back to work, but I would just like to record, for posterity, that while I can imagine much worse turns of events-I saw what happened to Dracaena, after all-it doesn’t get any more awkward than this. At least I hope not.