I need to get a hold of myself. I am not being a good reporter nor active in much anything else, for that matter.

After the telegram, I went out. I got incredibly sloshed. It could have been a lot worse than it was -- I could have been taken away or killed if I ran my mouth off to the wrong person. Sitting here now, reflecting on the incredible danger I put myself in, I feel my stomach squirm with What Ifs. But the fact is that I got drunk and nearly fell over in the street. I cut my trip home very close to curfew and apparently just missed one of the nightly patrols -- as soon as I closed the door to my flat I heard faint footsteps and, upon looking out the window, made out a German soldier moving slowly down the street.

Following that night, I stayed in bed for a few days. I didn't bathe or eat hardly anything. I didn't go out for my daily rations. I didn't do any work for the Times. I slept, mostly. For hours and hours at a time. I would wake up at six in the morning and fall back asleep. The next time I woke up it would be nearly dark.

I finally managed to get myself out of bed after a while and loafed around the flat in a dressing gown, still hardly eating but taking the drink now and again. I only went out for cigarettes, which I went through rather quickly. I whiled my hours sitting in front of my window watching the people on the street. The telegraph boy came several times. I answered the door the first few times, hoping that it was a message from Mum or James, but after that I stopped. Mostly they were from the paper, and they grew increasingly longer and panicky.

Last night I looked in the mirror in the bathroom. My hair was a tangled, poofy mess, matted down in the back from my pillow. I was terribly pale and the circles under my eyes gave me the appearance of the living dead. I had also lost quite a bit of weight; my once healthily full face was long and bony. James would not want me to be like this. He would want me to get out there, do my job, live my life, and expose the bloody Germans, the ones who are at fault for his disappearance.

So this morning I got up early, bathed, put on one of my nicest skirts and blouses along with my favorite shoes, grabbed my notepad, and went out. First I went straight to the post office where I sent a telegram to the paper (they had moved headquarters out of London and to a large building just outside the city during the evacuation) explaining that I was alright and working on something big. After that I went to the stores and waited in line for my daily rations, which looked so good even if they're meager. I came back to the flat, fixed up a lovely lunch (lovely for someone who hasn't eaten in days, anyway) and enjoyed it down to the last morsel. As soon as I finish this I'm going to take a walk and see if I can't pick up a decent story.

I'm continuously thinking of James though, and praying for his safety even though I'm a bit of an agnostic. Don't know who I'm praying to, exactly, but I hope that someone is watching over me and my brother.