just what they were like, and how much one would be able to cope with
them. It was a great pastime! Now that I really know what they _are_
like it seems particularly humorous that I thought one would even sleep
in them. My great idea was to have the whole thing clamped on and keep
it there, and not tell anyone about it! Little did I know then what a
relief it is to get them off. One can only comfort oneself on these
occasions with the ancient jest that it is "the first seven years that
are the worst!"

It is surprising how the illusions about artificial legs get knocked on
the head one by one. I discussed it with someone at Roehampton later. I
thought at least I should have jointed toes! An enterprising French firm
sent me a booklet about them one day. That really did bring things home
to me and I cried for the first time.

My visitors varied in the social scale from French guttersnipes
(Jean-Marie, who had been wont to have my old boots, etc.), to
brigadier-generals. One afternoon Corporal Coy dropped in to enquire how
I was. As he remarked cheerfully, "It would have fair turned me up if
_you'd_ come round to the mortuary, miss!"

He then settled himself comfortably in the armchair and proceeded to
entertain me. I only wished it didn't hurt so much to laugh. I asked him
if he had any new songs, and he accordingly gave me a selection _sotto
voce_. He would stop occasionally and say, "Noa, I can't sing you that
verse, it's too bad, aye, but it's a pity!" and shaking his head
mournfully he would proceed with the next!

He was just in the middle of another when the door opened suddenly and
Sir A---- S---- (Inspector-General of Medical Services) was ushered in
by the Colonel. (The little corporal positively faded out of existence!)
I might add he was nearly if not quite as entertaining.

"Nobby" Clark, a scion of the Labour Battalion, was another visitor who
called one afternoon, and I got permission for him to come up. He was
one of the local comedians and quite as good as any professional. I
would have gone miles to hear him. His famous monologue with his
imaginary friend "Linchpin" invariably brought the house down. He was
broad Lancashire and I had had a great idea of taking him off at one of
the FANTASTIK Concerts some time, but unfortunately, it was not to be.
He came tiptoeing in. "I thought I might take the liberty of coming to
enquire after you," he said, twisting his cap at the bottom of my bed (I
had learnt