From Carthew Fairfax’s diary:

September 14th 1929-I suppose I’ve touched bottom to-day. I’m going to write about it because it’s something to do, and because of the odd thing that happened. The more I think about it, the odder it seems, so I think I’ll just write everything down whilst I can be sure I’m remembering and not imagining. They say you get to imagine things when you’re alone a lot. Extraordinary to think that one used to come up to town to have a good time and see one’s pals. Now it’s not town any more; it’s London -a grimy, gritty loneliness-and if I saw a pal, I’d make tracks in the opposite direction. I thrashed that out with myself when I dropped past the middle of the ladder and began going down, rung by rung, to the bottom. I suppose I haven’t quite got there yet, but I must be pretty near it.

And now I’m going to write down what happened to-day.

I started out bright and early to answer an advertisement for a secretary. The extraordinary thing was that I really felt most awfully bucked. I suppose I’m hopeful by nature, because when I’m job-hunting I generally feel exhilarated and sure I’m going to get something this time. I remember feeling particularly hopeful just before I took on with that beast Craddock, and I only stayed a week, and left in a hurry because I was afraid I’d murder him if I didn’t get out-and whatever the luck’s like, I’d rather keep clear of the gallows, if it was only for Fay’s sake.

Well, I started out and stayed hopeful until the bloke who interviewed me turned me down. He was a smug brute, with black bottle-brush eyebrows and indecently new clothes. He turned me down. I saw him look at my boots, and I went out boiling with rage. I suppose three years of losing cheap jobs and hunting cheaper ones ought to have broken me in-but I boiled. I wanted to round on him and say, “I don’t write with my boots, fathead, and anyhow I’d eat them raw before I’d take your damned job!”