Our serialisation of Alexander Goodlet’s Ealing diaries from 80 years ago reaches the half-year mark. Week 27 includes his own, melancholic review of the year thus far. You can read previous weeks’ entries in our history section.
Up quite early, for me, and the Mater and I had all the housework done by 1pm, after which we both went back to our beds for a rest, feeling curiously worn out and indeed, bone weary.
The Pater got in touch today with Mr Kerr, whom I regret to say he finds utterly worn out in health. This is bad.
After tea went over to the Aunts’ and was marooned there for nearly an hour by a colossal downpour of rain, one of the heaviest I have seen for years.
After dinner took an hour’s stroll and en passant looked in at Kidds, where I found them all well.
The political world is still seething with the repercussions of that blighter Duff Cooper’s speech.
Rose for lunch feeling about a hundred years old and weary to the last degree. Busy during the afternoon and after tea took Joan and the youngsters home, who had been here for tea. Returned and wrote Ine for her birthday tomorrow.
After dinner Buzz and I went up to Hanger Hill bridge to see one of the new GWR diesel coaches go through. It duly came along, no.17, and was going at a great lick on the down relief. Later went to Ealing to post some letters and got well drenched on the way home.
The Mater has very decently done all the cooking today for tomorrow, when she will be away at Brighton for Ine’s birthday.
Today the King was down at Portsmouth reviewing various naval detachments and having a run in one of the new naval motor torpedo boats.
So here is the end of another half year. 1936 half over, and all that has happened is that we are deeper in the mess than ever; and what a hopeless, dreary mess it is, with not a gleam of outlook or hope anywhere. All of us, six months older, wearier and more worn out, and nothing to show for it, except sorrow and want.
It has been a momentous time, too, the death of King George, the fall of Abyssinia and the ructions in public life. Then there has been the birth of Annabelle and Ine’s daughter, to be called, I hear, Rosemary.
I’m too nervy and fed up to indulge in any prophecies for the next six months. One can only hope that they won’t be like the last.