The Diary of a Provincial Lady

Fun but not as, um, deep? (it feels icky to say it, but) as I was expecting. It took me some time to actually like the diarist, who seems to be an early 20th century Bridget Jones, if you will, with similar anxieties and desires and hilarities, but in a different context – with husband and children and household and no actual friends.

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‰ЫПFind it difficult to get ‰ЫчOranges and Lemons‰ЫЄ going, whilst at the same time appearing to give intelligent attention to remarks from visiting mother concerning Exhibition of Italian Pictures at Burlington House. Find myself telling her how marvellous I think them, although in actual fact have not yet seen them at all. Realise that this misstatement should be corrected at once, but omit to do so, and later find myself involved in entirely unintentional web of falsehood. Should like to work out how far morally to blame for this state of things, but have not time.‰Ыќ

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‰ЫПAm escorted to the front gate by Cousin Maud, who tells me what a topping thing it is for old Mr. B. to be taken out of herself for a bit, and asks if it isn‰ЫЄt good to be Alive on a bracing day like this? Should like to reply that it would be far better for some of us to be dead, in my opinion, but spirit for this repartee fails me, and I weakly reply that I know what she means.‰Ыќ