How much do I mind death? I wondered last night, and concluded that there is a sense in which the end could be accepted calmly. That's odd, considering that few people are more immensely interested by life: and happy. It's Julian's death that makes one sceptical of life I suppose. Not that I ever think of him as dead: which is queer. Rather as if he were jerked abruptly out of sight, without rhyme or reason: so violent and absurd that one can't fit his death into any scheme. But here we are, on a fine cold day, going to mate Sally at Ickenham: a saner proceeding than to analyse here.