Part 72: Monday 23rd January 1961, approx 9.30 pm

E. has gone round to some woman locally who got in touch with her through a “house-bound women” scheme started by The Observer, I think, and which I egged E. into joining. [National Women’s Register?] Children asleep, all quiet, but I am tired, in spite of easy day (Mondays – 4 short periods in morning; free before play in aftnn, 1A – easy – after play) and anxious to get a short read and coffee in before bed. Have just had to jettison fountain pen the nib of which disappeared – into ink-bottle? If so – retrieve ? – when I was trying to fill it. Ink-stained hands. Paul Jennings can write about, 50 guineas, 100 guineas (or perhaps 30 guineas?); all I can do is record inadequately here.

Have read another Anglo-Jewish novel, The Limits of Love, by Frederic Raphael. Written with terrific vitality. The ragging of the Jewish hero at his public school a tour de force.

Philip now names all articles he has experience of. His latest acquisition a “beiggel” (bicycle) actually tricycle – from his Boobbe Esther. He says naughty, dirty, dark, “mind!”, hold tight. Max now turns over, sits up. Cohen, at school, lost in admiration of atom bomb, deplores spinelessness of physicians in refusing to blow up Universe. A good line, he himself quite a card. A brilliant pianist, a good talker. His wife was smitten with polio, a few years ago. Has two children, I think.

 

 

Part 71: Sunday 1st January1961, 5pm

We had been looking forward to going to the Kopkins to-day, Lew was going to collect and return us, but Philip was very much off colour yesterday morning. The doctor came and said flu. Philip was much better this morning, bright and cheerful, but we thought it best not to risk taking him out. However, Lew called for Max & Edith, and I am now writing this in a blissful quiet in the study. Philip was on the go from 9 till 3, when, after two unsuccessful attempts, we hardened our hearts and left him, still protesting, in the cot. Talking of hardening our hearts, it’s amazing how we bawl at him –  NO, you must NOT throw things (the culprit stands stock still, plunged, apparently, in profound thought) – but when he’s not well – ah, where does it hurt you darling? Have some eggy darling? Mookky (milk) darling? Very pathos-ic.