4 December, 1910

Everyone's pretty near done in with making reparations after the gale--catching sleep, cleaning out living quarters, helping to re-stow coal and petrol, mending lashings, etc. Mostly we're all still wet, since it is not easy to dry clothing and bedding. Everything smells pretty awful.

That photograph of me at the top of the page: I don't really look like that, you know. I did once, but that was years ago. I'm afraid age has caught up with me in less than flattering ways. I'll never understand what Kathleen sees in me since she enjoyed the company of so many other handsome chaps her own age. She wouldn't let me wear a hat in the sunshine for fear of my losing my hair -- "I won't have a bald husband," she said-- but I'm afraid that sunshine or not it's going. It's curious because in so many other ways she cares not a whit for appearances, whereas I care more than I suppose I ought.

I don't know why I'm fretting so -- perhaps it's the anti-climax of having been under such enormous stress the last few days. I would dearly love to sleep, but can't be seen to be slacking off while the men work so hard around me.