p.

3.

made of sand a& shit. And I do agree that that just
about describes it. There's no real or natural beauty
in the place - there are a few trees & a certain amount
of dirty grass, but never as we know it. And day after
day, there is this silly, pointless, unnecessary gusty wind.
That is what is annoying me more than anything today.
In my office, if I have the windows open, all my paper
keep blowing off my table, & if I have the windows
half open, it may be alright until somebody opens
the door and then they shut with a bang, or fly open
again, with a bang, in any case, always with a
bang. And then the shutters bang, & doors bang & more
papers fly. It's bloody

And now I have come next door to my room to write
to you - and have fastened the windows, the shutters, and the
doors, & it is reasonably peaceful. Until it gets dark, and
then every revolting dog for miles will start barking,
continuously, unceasing, unremittingly & without pause
until I go to sleep. And the chickens join in too. And
there is another foul noise which I cannot identify - It
sounds too human to be an animal, & too inhuman
to be a human being. So goodness knows what it is,
but it wails and shrieks, & yelps, the dogs bark more
furiously and the hens start up again. And Peter looks
as though he would like to join in too, but he thinks
the better of it, after catching my eye. (Just at the
moment, he is sitting across my knees, as I write -
a new position for him - it's rather pleasant, & intimate,
trusting & affectionate). And the flies & all the other

3.
made of sand an dshit. And I do agree that that just
about described it. There's no real or natual beauty
in the place - there are a few trees and a certain amount
of dirty grass, but never as we know it. Any day after
day, there is this silly, pointless, unnecessary gusty wind
that is what is annoying me more than anything today.
In my office, if I have the windows open, all my paper
keep blowing off my table, and if I have the windows
half open, it may be alright until somebody opens
the door and then they shut with a bang, or fly open
again, with a bang, in any cae, always with a
bang. And then, the shutters bag, and doors bang and more
papers fly. It's bloody
And now I have come next door to my room to write
to you - and have fastened the windows, and the shutters, adn ther
doors, and it si reasonably peaceful. Until it gets dark, and
then every revoltin dog for miles will start barking,
continuously, unceasing, unremittingly and without pause
until I go to sleep. And the chickens join in too. And
there's another foul noise which I cannot identify -
it sounds too human to be an animal, and too inhuman
to be a human being. So goodness knows what it is,
but it wails and shrieks, and yelps, the dogs bark more
furiously and the hens start up again. And Peter looks
as though he would like to join in too, but he thinks
the better of it, after catching my eye. (Just at the
moment, he is sitting across my knees, as I write -
a new position for him - it's rather pleasant, and intimate,
trusting and affectionate). And the flies and all the other