So home that long cold exhausting journey for the last time.  Some odds & ends of ideas came to me at dinner.  For one thing how pungent people's writing is compared with people's flesh.  We were all toothless insignificant amiable nonentities - we distinguished writers - Not a fig would I give for anyone's praise or curse.  Jack Squire, fat, & consequential; Eddie [Marsh] grown grey & fatherly; Nevinson beetroot coloured, & a little praising blood, & by inference himself; Tomlinson like the hard knob of a walking stick carved by a boy of 8; Blunden despairing, drooping, crow-like, rather than Keats' like...The truth is these collective gatherings must be floated by some conventional song, in which all can join, like He's a jolly good fellow, which Squire started. Subtler impressions did occur to me, but I can't place them at the moment.