He's particularly infuriating on Sundays, when he switches on the light at the crack of dawn to exercise for ten minutes.
To me, the torment seems to last for hours, since the chairs I use to make my bed longer are constantly being jiggled under my sleepy head.
After rounding off his limbering-up exercises with a few vigorous arm swings, His Lordship begins dressing.
His underwear is hanging on a hook, so first he lumbers over to get it and then lumbers back, past my bed.
But his tie is on the table, so once again he pushes and bumps his way past the chairs.
But I mustn't waste any more of your time griping about disgusting old men. It won't help matters anyway.
My plans for revenge, such as unscrewing the lightbulb, locking the door and hiding his clothes,
have unfortunately had to be abandoned in the interests of peace.
Oh, I'm becoming so sensible! We've got to be reasonable about everything we do here:
studying, listening, holding our tongues, helping others, being kind, making compromises and I don't know what else!
I'm afraid my common sense, which was in short supply to begin with,
will be used up too quickly and I won't have any left by the time the war is over. Yours, Anne
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