E. Delafield - The Collected Works of E. M. Delafield (Illustrated Edition)

Spend much time in arranging how I can best get in to hairdresser's for shampoo-and-set before Saturday, and also consider purchase of new frock, but am aware that financial situation offers no justification whatever for this.

Much later on, Robert enquires whether I am ill, and on receiving negative reply, urges that I should try and get to sleep. As I have been doing this, without success, for some time, answer appears to me to be unnecessary.

( Mem.: Self-control very, very desirable quality, especially where imagination involved, and must certainly endeavour to cultivate.)

April 30th. --Incredible quantity of household requirements immediately springs into life on my announcing intention of going into Plymouth in order to visit hairdresser. Even Casabianca suddenly says Would it be troubling me too much to ask me to get a postal-order for three shillings and tenpence-halfpenny? Reply tartly that he will find an equally acceptable one at village Post Office, and then wish I hadn't when he meekly begs my pardon and says that, Yes, of course he can.

( N.B. This turning of the cheek has effect, as usual, of making me much crosser than before. Feel that doubt is being cast on Scriptural advice, and dismiss subject immediately.)

Bus takes me to Plymouth, where I struggle with Haberdashery--wholly uncongenial form of shopping, and extraordinarily exhausting--socks for Vicky, pants for Robin, short scrubbing-brush demanded by Cook, but cannot imagine what she means to do with it, or why it has to be short--also colossal list of obscure groceries declared to be unobtainable anywhere nearer than Plymouth. None of these are ever in stock at counters where I ask for them, and have to be procured either Upstairs or in the Basement, and am reminded of comic song prevalent in days of youth: The Other Department, If you please, Straight On and Up the Stairs. Quote it to grey-headed shopman, in whom I think it may rouse memories, but he only replies Just so, moddam, and we part without further advances on either side.

Rather tedious encounter follows with young gentleman presiding over Pickles, who endeavours to persuade me that I want particularly expensive brand of chutney instead of that which I have asked for, and which he cannot supply. Am well aware that I ought to cut him short with curt assurance that No Substitute will Do, but find myself mysteriously unable to do anything of the kind, and we continue to argue round and round in a circle, although without acrimony on either side. Curious and unsatisfactory conclusion is reached by my abandoning Chutney motif altogether, and buying small and unknown brand of cheese in a little jar. Young gentleman then becomes conversational in lighter vein, and tells me of his preference in films, and we agree that No-one has ever come near Dear Old Charlie. Nor ever will, says the young gentleman conclusively, as he ties string into elegant bow, which will give way the moment I get into street. I say No indeed, we exchange mutual expressions of gratitude, and I perceive that I am going to be late for appointment with hairdresser.

Collect number of small parcels--including particularly degraded-looking paper-bag containing Chips for which Robin and Vicky have implored--sling them from every available finger until I look like inferior Christmas-tree, thrust library-books under one arm--(they slip continually, and have to be pushed into safety from behind by means of ungraceful acrobatics)--and emerge into street. Unendearing glimpse of myself as I pass looking-glass reveals that my hat has apparently engulfed the whole of my head and half of my face as well. (Disquieting query here: Is this perhaps all for the best?) Also that blue coat with fur collar, reasonably becoming when I left home, has now assumed aspect of something out of a second-hand clothes-shop. Encourage myself with visions of unsurpassed brilliance that is to be mine after shampoo-and-set, careful dressing to-night, and liberal application of face-powder, and--if necessary--rouge.

Just as I have, mentally, seen exquisite Paris-model gown that exactly fits me, for sale in draper's window at improbable price of forty-nine shillings and sixpence, am recalled to reality by loud and cordial greetings of Our Vicar's Wife, who plunges through traffic at great risk to life in order to say what a coincidence this is, considering that we met yesterday, and are sure to be meeting to-morrow. She also invites me to come and help her choose white linen buttons for pillow-cases--but this evidently leading direct to Haberdashery once more, and I refuse--I hope with convincing appearance of regret.

Am subsequently dealt with by hairdresser--who says that I am the only lady he knows that still wears a bob--and once more achieve bus, where I meet Miss S. of the Post Office, who has also been shopping. We agree that a day's shopping is tiring--One's Feet, says Miss S.--and that the bus hours are inconvenient. Still, we can't hope for everything in this world, and Miss S. admits that she is looking forward to a Nice Cup of Tea and perhaps a Lay-Down, when she gets home. Reflect, not for the first time, that there are advantages in being a spinster. Should be sorry to say exactly how long it is since I last had a Lay-Down myself, without being disturbed at least fourteen times in the course of it.

Spend much time, on reaching home, in unpacking and distributing household requirements, folding up and putting away paper and string, and condoling with Vicky, who alleges that Casabianca had made her walk miles and miles , and she has a pain in her wrist. Do not attempt to connect these two statements, but suggest the sofa and Dr. Dolittle , to which Vicky agrees with air of exhaustion, which is greatly intensified every time she catches my eye.

Later on, Casabianca turns up--looking pale-green with cold and making straight for the fire--and announces that he and the children have had a Splendid Walk and are all the better for it. Since I know, and Vicky knows, that this is being said for the express benefit of Vicky, we receive it rather tepidly, and conversation lapses while I pursue elusive sum of ten shillings and threepence through shopping accounts. Robin comes in by the window--I say, too late, Oh, your boots !--and Robert, unfortunately choosing this moment to appear, enquires whether there isn't a schoolroom in the house?

Atmosphere by this time is quite unfavourable to festivity, and I go up to dress for the Frobishers--or, more accurately, for the Blamingtons--feeling limp.

Hot bath restores me slightly--but relapse occurs when entirely vital shoulder-strap gives way and needle and thread become necessary.

Put on my Green, dislike it very much indeed, and once more survey contents of wardrobe, as though expecting to find miraculous addition to already perfectly well-known contents.

Needless to say, this does not happen, and after some contemplation of my Black--which looks rusty and entirely out of date--and my Blue--which is a candidate for the next Jumble sale--I return to the looking-glass still in my Green, and gaze at myself earnestly.

( Query: Does this denote irrational hope of sudden and complete transformation in personal appearance? If so, can only wonder that so much faith should meet with so little reward.)

Jewel-case unfortunately rather low at present--(have every hope of restoring at least part of the contents next month, if American sales satisfactory)--but great-aunt's diamond ring fortunately still with us, and I put it on fourth finger of left hand, and hope that Bill will think Robert gave it to me. Exact motive governing this wish far too complicated to be analysed, but shelve entire question by saying to myself that Anyway, Robert certainly would have given it to me if he could have afforded it.