Saturday 2nd September 1939.
There’s unease around, are we going to war? Are we not? Manchester is acting like we are already there, sand bags protecting monuments (really why bother) Air raid shelters on every corner, down dark and damp basements. Personally I think I would rather take the risk. Men in uniforms strutting around, they must be fearful about what is to happen. But as for me, I must keep a high spirit, my regulars need their tea and books. They ask no questions. I can be myself.
Met Hazel for Milk and fruit cake after work. I love cake as much as I love Hazel. She would put a stop to all this nonsense and knock on Heir Hitlers front door and bop I’m on his nose. I do love her confidence. I wish I had just a little of what she had. We chatted until the last bus. Normally we meet up for a drink and a dance at the Ritz, but for some reason everything closed earlier than normal. It seems everyone wanted to get home to be with family. I can feel the tension in the air. I’m not sticking around town.
Home sweet home. Bag of chips on the way back. Home. I’m done in.
Beryl. X
Rooted In Rations 