20 September 2012, around 21.30.
‘Yes,’ I said to my husband, ‘it is disgusting that one cannot remember pictures and drawings exactly. It would have been wonderful to have the book by us, and see exactly how the palace struck a man of two centuries ago, and how it strikes us, who owe our eye for architecture largely to that man,’ ‘Then why did we not bring the book?’ asked my husband. ‘Well, it weighs just over a stone, ’ I said, ‘I weighed it once on the bathroom scales.’ ‘Why did you do that?’ asked my husband. ‘Because it occurred to me one day that I knew the weight of nothing except myself and joints of meat,’ I said, ‘and I just picked that up to give me an idea of something else.’ ‘Well, well!’ said my husband.
—Rebecca West (Black Lamb and Grey Falcon, p. 140)