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World War ll London Blitz:  Buy On Smashwords
I am the great-granddaughter of Ruby Side Thompson. 
Recently I started re-reading the World War ll journals and felt that they were such an important part of a history that will soon be forgotten if not published and shared with the world. These diary excerpts are not the entirety of what is published in print and kindle.
Ruby grew up during a time when education was just beginning to be encouraged for both upper and middle class women. During the late 1890's Ruby explored many radical political ideas of London, England. She met many famous people including the writers George Bernard Shaw and William Butler Yeats. 
5.0 out of 5 stars A choice pick, not to be overlooked, November 6, 2011 By Midwest Book Review (Oregon, WI USA)

World War ll London Blitz Diary: 1-31-40 Neither milk nor coal get into towns, and outlying villages in Derbyshire, Buxton, and Lanshire have been completely cut off from the world for over three days, and are running out of all food supplies.

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January 31, 1940
The thaw. I am expecting Artie in this evening for a week’s leave, but whether he can get here is doubtful. For several days now all transport, rail and road, has been disorganized or not working at all. Yesterday a train from Glasgow arrived at Euston twenty-eight hours late. The cold has been intense here in London; we were down to twenty-nine degrees of frost and the snowfall heavy. On Monday the Radioman told me that at Upminster he couldn’t get through at all; the snow was five feet deep. Neither milk nor coal get into towns, and outlying villages in Derbyshire, Buxton, and Lanshire have been completely cut off from the world for over three days, and are running out of all food supplies. England hasn’t had a winter like this, the weathermen say, since eighteen ninety-four. The Thames at Surbiton and Teddington is frozen over for eight miles. The serpentine, of course, where there is gala-skating going on. The Transport Board reports that they have no such difficulties on record. So it is the worst ever. Of course with the thaw we shall get floods. The sky right now looks as though it will let down another heavy snowfall by night.
Anyhow, the temperature has moderated, so tempers have improved quite a bit. So that’s lucky. Mrs. Shaw should have been here today but didn’t show up. I’m not surprised. The roads are practically impassable. I wouldn’t go out either.
I‘m sitting down to a re-reading of Saints, Sinners, and Beecher’s. I dream persistently of Bayonne, of America, and now this blizzard weather particularly sets me to daydreaming of American winters. So I feel I’ll browse with the Beecher’s for an hour or two. Au-Revoir.
February 5, 1940
For a week or more I have had a vision of the corner of East Thirty-Third Street and Broadway, Bayonne, in my mind’s eye, and nothing would shift it. I had a dream that I was standing on that corner, outside the First National Bank, talking to Mrs. Hewetson, and the thawed snow was roaring down the corner gutter. I had a baby in a baby carriage. She was holding the small Jackie by the hand. It was a picture of thirty years ago. We were young, as we were. Now today the picture has been displaced by one of the Bayonne Library steps.
Another dream. It is still the thawing season, and the wooden steps are in place in the center of the great steps. They were sopping wet and I am walking up the wet stone steps beside them. The library door is open; overhead the sky is a gorgeous clear blue. A dream, more real to me than the English room in which I am at the moment sitting. My Bayonne, my America, my home. It is true: only the lost is one’s forever.
I am not exactly homesick, but I am not here. I have been reading old American books, to hold the scene, to keep the atmosphere. Reading about the Beecher’s, the Gothic American. Mrs. Eddy. This morning, I read haphazardly in Science and Health. It is better than I remembered it. It’s a hodge-podge—she’s a plagiarist—but she was certainly saying something. Even if she was a plagiarist, she nevertheless had the wit and the stick-at-it-ness to make a fine bouquet of her own from the blooms she had gathered from other people’s gardens. It is her bouquet which is a concrete thing, which works, and which lasts.
I read Fisher’s book about her last week. His greatest grievance about her teaching (apart from his sneers at her life) is that she takes all personality away from God. To me, that is one of her great achievements. To me, the personality of God, especially the masculine personality of God, is always a stumbling block. Mrs. Eddy has annihilated that. She presents God as truth, life, love, mind, and principle.
After all, didn’t Jesus say, “I am the Way, the Truth, and the Life?” Didn’t he say, “God is spirit?” St John, “God is Love?” It is in these terms I can think of God. God as a person, as a He? No, I cannot.
This is a dull day, inclined to be foggy. Artie has gone to town for the day, and Edna Renacre has gone with him. I wonder if this friendship is going to become an engagement. Although Edna is a really nice girl, I hope not. Artie is too young for that, and the war is too troubling. This war may drag on for years yet, and then, when it’s all over, Artie will have no work, no prospects. To get engaged now is to tie his hands. The girl is persistent, and she may persuade him that he is “in love”. I do hope not. I want Artie to keep free until he has discovered just exactly what he wants to do with his life. Merely to become a husband is not much. Though, of course, to become a wife is a girl’s end of scheming.
February 6, 1940
It is Shrove Tuesday, but no pancakes. Mrs. Jude here to lunch; at teatime, only Ted and me. So, as we were full of pudding, decided it was too bothersome to make pancakes, just for we two.
Mrs. Jude has a brand new prophecy. One of the sisters of the Little Flower died this week. Mrs. Jude tells me that before she died the Little Flower appeared to her, and told her that the war would be all over in two months from her death.
“Now that was a fort-night ago,” Mrs Jude said. “She’s been dead just two weeks. You’ll see, in another two months the war will be all over. The Little Flower said so!”
Yes. We will see all right. Mrs. Jude is the most absolutely superstitious person I have ever come across. There is no talk of wonders too difficult for her to swallow.
February 7, 1940
Ash Wednesday. Artie returned to the barracks today, but there is a chance he may be home again for the weekend. Mrs. Jude was here again today. I suppose she is having one of her spasms of visiting. I showed her a letter in the Times, which pleased her. Somebody wrote in to draw attention to a prophecy in Daniel Eleven. It is from Verse twenty-one, and on. It really is a very appropriate description of Hitler and Hitler’s doings. It really is remarkable.
At eleven o’clock this morning the air raid warning sounded. It was only a practice signal, which it has been arranged to sound at eleven o’clock in the morning of every first Wednesday of the month; but one forgets this, or what day of the month it is, and when the warning siren goes off, one suffers a panic, willy-nilly. Suddenly I felt as though I had no insides, and probably a siren sounding will do that to me for the rest of my life.
To the editor of the Times, February 7, 1940
A Prophecy from Daniel
“Sir, you have published in your columns two extracts from Jeremiah and from Ezra’s, which appear to be prophetic of current events. In the eleventh chapter of the Book of Daniel (verse twenty-one) I extract the following description, which appears particularly applicable to the Fuhrer, indicating his views and aims and destined fate.”
“And in his place shall stand up a contemptible person to whom they had not given the honor of the Kingdom, but he shall come in time of security, and shall obtain the Kingdom by flatteries. And with the arms of a flood shall they be swept away from before him and shall be broken.
“And after the league made with him he shall work deceitfully; for he shall come up and shall become strong with a small people. In time of security shall he come even upon the farthest places of the province; and he shall do that which his fathers have not done, nor his fathers’ fathers; he shall scatter among them prey and spoil and substance: yea he shall devise his devices against the strongholds even for a time…
“And the King shall do accordingly to his will; and he shall exalt himself and magnify himself above every god, and shall speak marvelous things against the God of gods and he shall prosper till the indignation be accomplished; for that which is determined shall be done.
“Neither shall he regard the gods of his fathers, nor the desire of women, nor any god: for he shall magnify himself above all. But in his place shall he honor the god of fortresses.”
Yours, & c., A. Wigglesworth. Port of London Building, Trinity Square
February 8, 1940
I had Mrs. Bull in to see me this morning. When Ted came into dinner yesterday, he told us that he had heard a conversation between Mrs. Bull and old Bert, in the office, from which it appeared that old Bert had written her a letter (why write? except that he couldn’t face her) laying her off from her job of cleaning the office. It seems she has cleaned the office for twenty-nine years, and she wanted to know why she was dismissed so summarily. I gathered, too, that she had quit at Arden Cottage. So I wrote her in the afternoon, and asked her did she want to resume my work; Mrs. Shaw resigned the job last week, as she is ill.
So Mrs. Bull came to see me this morning, and I got an earful. It appears she hasn’t technically “left” her job at Arden Cottage but is on the panel, as she is so tired she had to see the doctor, and he has ordered her to rest. Nevertheless, her daughter, who frequently helps her with that job, did her office cleaning for her. She only quit working for me because Bert persuaded her to give all her time to him, at Arden Cottage, and I agreed because of the domestic upheavals there, since the death of Tillie. Well, I heard some weeks ago that old Bert was bullying Mrs. Bull to make her give up her ration cards to him; but this she refused to do. Quite naturally she preferred to use her rations in her home with her daughter. Bert thought he ought to have them, and even talked about going to see the Food Controller about them. Much good that would have done him. One’s rations are one’s own, and certainly do not have to be surrendered by a daily worker to her employer. Why should they? If Mrs. Bull’s ration of meat went into the Arden Cottage joint, what would she get? The joint would go into the dining room, and after old Bert and Mrs. Webb had had first cuts, Mrs. Bull could have the leavings. Of course that isn’t good enough. Further, as Mrs. Bull naturally asks: What about Mrs. Webb’s relations ration-cards? Why not ask for them, since her relations are so frequently at Arden Cottage?
Mrs. Bull tells me that Mrs. Webb’s relations—two sisters, a brother, and a brother-in-law—are sponging on old Bert practically all the time. They come every evening, every Sunday, the sisters are there all day, and often they all sleep there. They booze, at Bert’s expense. Mrs. Webb is frequently the worse for drink, and slobbers over Bert.
“Kisses him, Mrs. Thompson,” Mrs. Bull said, “it’s disgusting. She sits in the dining room, so bold. Her skirts pulled right up, and old Mr. Bert looking at her legs. I’ve seen him. The hussy, that’s all she is. I can’t stand it, Mrs. Thompson. That’s why I’m so tired. That’s why I’m run down. It worries me. Mr. Thompson says it’s my own fault, because I won’t sleep in there. I can’t. I did try it. I can’t settle in that house. It’s horrible with that Mrs. Webb there.”
So she’s on sick leave; but to be further unpleasant old Bert is now holding up her insurance card! He is a disagreeable cantankerous old beast. So the next move is to sack her from the office job. Of course this is Mrs. Webb’s instigation; only a woman would think of such a trick.
Also, I hear that old Bert is scared to death of Mrs. Webb’s husband. Mrs. Bull says he watches the house and walks around it at night, so, every time they hear a footstep after dark, old Bert gets in a dither.
“You can see him,” said Mrs. Bull. “He’s as nervous as a cat.”
I should think he would be. He’ll find himself sued, or appearing as a co-respondent in the divorce courts yet. I wonder what young Bertie thinks of it all. Old Bert has developed into a boozy lecherous beast, an inhuman father, a disgrace to his family, and a scandal to the town. He’s another old fellow who has lived too long. Of course this core of badness, this crass selfishness and bestiality, must have always been in him. It was Tillie that kept it in check. With Tillie gone, the real man appears, and it is a disgusting and valueless man.
February 9, 1940
I had a busy morning pastry making, but thinking all the time about old Bert, and the Thompson family, generally.
I never knew my parents-in-law, but they must have been poor stuff. Tillie told me something about them. When she came from America as a bride, in nineteen hundred, she and Bert took a house beside their house, so she knew both of them from that time until they died. Her opinion was that Mrs. Thompson had the better brains and character of the pair, and that it was she who ruled the family, and kept it together. In a way, she thought the mother was too good to the father. The father, I gathered, was an easygoing master, and an old soak. Tillie also told me about the crazy grandmother, as Grace had done, when in New York. I have an ever deepening conviction that the Thompson’s are, and were, all mad, in some degree or another, or, if not mad, something short in their brain box, sort of ten pence-halfpenny in the shilling, as it were. Certainly I am convinced that if I had ever met any of Ted’s people before I married him, I never should have married him. I should have seen at once that they were definitely not my kind of people, and I should have left them to their East End, where they obviously and naturally belonged. The fact that the younger children went up in the world was a fluke, as the fact that the younger ones had brains was a fluke. Bert hasn’t got brains; he’s only had luck. It was the last war made his money for him. Young Bertie gets his brains from his mother; Tillie had no education to speak of, but she was a very smart woman with a good wit; as for Selma, she is probably a throwback to the Grandmother, born a moron, and now definitely cracked, going loony because of sex frustration.
Old Bert’s conduct since the death of Tillie has been one absurd escapade after another. Of course he’s scared of dying, and most of his silly actions have been attempts to cheat old age and closer coming death. I guess he has always been afraid of dying, and always running away from difficulties. When he went to the Klondike, he was running away from his first wife; and when he became sick up there in Alaska, he turned tail at once and ran out of it, leaving my Ted, a lad of only eighteen, to shift for himself. That was a dirty deal too. Well, I suppose he will soon be running away from Mrs. Webb, unless death cops him soon.
I wonder about my own children. What dab of the bunch have they got? Nobody could ever be saner than a Searle or a Side, and I’m sure I’m no fool as the world recognizes fools. As for Ted, I think he is a fool, and I think he grows more foolish as time proceeds. Practically daily now, as I listen to his silly talk, my exasperated and impatient inner woman is secretly exclaiming at him, “Oh you bloody fool!” As for the conduct of his life, what could have been more fantastic and unbalanced? As for his religion, what is there normal and sane about that? This is a man who was clever in his youth, a man who achieved education and culture and climbed to the top of the ladder, but now where is he and what is he? Today he’s a poor sap, now here. He’s reverted to an original Thompson, a plebian crackpot.

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