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[Page 17]
It is a most extraordinary thing but every time I come off first picket I seem to be fated to meet the drinks of the evening. Last time it was Macrae, our [indecipherable] D.C.H., very voluble, asserting that he was in charge of the Picket & that I would 'do him'. Last night it was Alf Boucher, the cook, who arrived just after I had got into bed, also voluble, & positively wrapped up in beer bottles, - he produced them like a conjurer form all over his person -. He paid me 10 piastres which I had lent him a few days back & insisted that I should drink a bottle with him: I demurred until he declared that he would 'pour it
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