I’ve been going through one of those uncomfortable between-times when I can’t find a book to suit my mood. I have several unreads waiting on my shelves, a Rose Tremain 'Colours' Amitav Ghosh ‘The Glass Palace,’ and ‘Topper takes a Trip’ by Thorne Smith, to name just a few. Raking disconsolately through the Red Cross shelves wasn’t helpful; what they had on offer was same-old same-old, although I do acknowledge the problem is more mine than theirs.

Eventually I grabbed a fat ex-library hardback copy of ‘Joyce and Ginnie’ a collection - selection - of the huge correspondence between Joyce Grenfell and Virginia Graham over Joyce’s lifetime (she dies some 12 years before her friend.) I knew I wouldn’t read it all and thought it might irritate me but it was worth a go. I have one or two fond memories of laughter shared with my ma-in-law (of all people) over recording by Grenfell, ‘George, don’t do that’ amongst them. Also the early St.Trinian’s films, watched on TV with my parents seemed funny in their day. I bought the collection recently and unfortunately my taste, tolerance, and the times have all changed so they were a bit of a disappointment. I greatly prefer the updated versions with Russell Brand, Rupert Everett and Colin Firth.

To my surprise I read about a third of the way through before skipping to the end and her death. From the tone of the letters, said to be very like her manner of speaking, and a few photos, Joyce didn’t have to act much to be the gauche ‘jolly hockey sticks’ gym mistress in St. T. She’s even got a sort of gym slip on in the cover photo. What I did admire is her gutsiness and positivity which, at a guess, were both natural to her but equally might have been a result of the discipline involved in being a Christian Scientist, or, even more probably, the ethos of the time.

My mother-in-law, a contemporary of JG, expressed disgust every time I tried to share my real feelings on any subject. I always used, as one was exhorted to do in counselling and workshops, the ‘I’ word so as to own my emotions. She told me this showed how irredeemably egotistical I was/am. It simply wasn’t done in their day to say ‘I think’ or ‘I feel’. ‘One’ had to be substituted at all times so as to distance oneself! I believe I pointed out to her, in a provoked moment, that every time she said ‘One’ she meant ‘I’ so it came to the same thing in the end.

There is something admirable in the determined bright-brittle cheerfulness of these between-the-wars people. The lost generation. It can be found in ‘The Camomile Lawn’ by Mary Wesley, in ‘Love in a Cold Climate’ by Nancy Mitford, and ‘Cold Comfort Farm’ by Stella Gibbons, three of my favourite novels made long ago into BBC series and films which I bought recently on DVD to spend many hours glued to my couch watching when I should have been doing something more productive,

I learned an interesting fact: at the time their correspondence began there were five posts a day and a letter written early in the morning could reach the recipient by tea-time. So different now!

I also liked this ‘pome’ (yes, she was unfortunately fond of this verbal whimsy!) by JG and shall have it at my funeral. I might change the last two lines. All suggestions welcome.

If I should go before the rest of you
Break not a flower nor inscribe a stone
Nor when I am gone speak in a Sunday voice
But be the usual selves that I have known.
Weep if you must
Parting is hell.
But life goes on
So sing as well.