Cemetery

I woke up to hear that an attack on the Falkands has begun. Mum was full of tense fatalistic sighs and tragic comments and Carol's quite upset too. We watched the start of the London Marathon on TV and Robert and Carol left at 10.30.

Later I went out to do some preparatory sketches for Art. It was a fine clear warm evening as I walked down Foster Crescent, through scenes of middle class domestic tranquility (cars being washed, children playing, neighbours chatting), and along the canal about 1½ miles as far as Three Locks. I was looking for industry and nature interrelationships.

Along with the evening trippers I watched the locks being filled and emptied and boats maneuvering and then walked back the way I’d come. I stopped at a grassy gully between factory walls and stayed a while, drawing fire escapes and drain pipes tangled and choked with vegetation.

I cut back through the woods near Egley and was conscious of the fact that most of the people strolling through the trees around me were neat, smart couples. I diverted up through the Cemetery, wandering for a long while in the silence between the marble crosses and head stones, The air was still and thick with the scent of flowers: tranquil yet depressing. I got home full of gloomy thoughts.

More Falklands action. The Ministry of Defence denies an invasion but a trawler has been strafed and a Puma helicopter shot down. We watched spectacular film on the news of a Harrier bombing raid on Port Stanley.