Baghdad Nov 9 Dearest Father. No mail as yet this week - Happy to tell you I'm much better and have felt today quite a zest in life - for the first time. Partly, I think because yesterday I spent the whole day, nearly, out of doors, for Sir Percy and I motored out to Ba'quba [Ba'qubah] and lunched with the A.P.O. It was 6 years since I went along that road - I say 6 years because it was in 1911, but really it's a lifetime - when I was on my way to plan Sassanian palaces at Qasr-i-Shirin [Qasr-e-Shirin], over the Persian frontier. I remember it as a long and tedious day's ride; we did it yesterday in 2 hours; it's 32 miles of bumpy desert road. Ba'quba is a nice little place set in palm gardens and olive groves on the Diyalah [Diyala (Sirwan)]. I looked at my camping ground near a khan by the river bank and tried to remember the sort of person who pitched tents there, but I couldn't. The khan was almost as much changed; it has become a hospital. I hadn't been out of Baghdad since April, nor Sir Percy since March, so you think what a pleasant sense of irresponsible holiday it gave both of us. I only wished we could have gone on further. I am beginning some nice new jobs. One is the taking over of the editorship of Al 'Arab, the vernacular paper we publish. I'm full of schemes for making it more alive by getting provinical correspondents and a local newswriter. I feel certain my public will take more interest in hearing that Ibn So and So was fined Rs 10 for being out without a lantern after dark than in the news that an obscure village in Flanders has been bombed. Père Anastase, the sub-editor comes weekly to read me leading articles which I censor. He's a jolly monk, an Arab from the Lebanon straight out of Chaucer all the same and with a clear eye fixed on the main chance; very learned in his own tongue, he speaks and writes French like a Frenchman. I like him none the worse for his being in spite of his cloth, I'm persuaded, a rogue.
In my garden there's the most gorgeous mud pie I've ever been privileged to see. It's not however for frivolous purposes; we're busy mending my roofs against the rainy season and mud is what you do it with. I'm credibly informed that when there's a high flood my garden is underwater and that objects from the house I inhabit have been observed to float down the neighbouring street. It's a gloomy thought. I don't know whether to wish for a dry season for my comfort or to hope for the rain which is essential for our next harvest. If I'm obliged to move out I shall no doubt manage to get a lodging for the necessary 2 months. Sir Percy would put me up, in any case, but I do very much prefer living alone. It's a comfort to get away from the office and think of other things which it's morally impossible to do if you remain in the place you've worked in all day.

The I.G.C. is due tomorrow or next day, and that will be cheerful. He has been on leave in India, hence his long absence. I saw Cecil Lupton today in the street and stopped to speak to him. He is at the Remount Depot and has invited me to go and see it, which I shall do. It is said to be an admirably organized establishment.

We have got the most darling shaikhlet here as a guarantee of his father's good behaviour. He's aged about 8, a solemn beautifully mannered child. He comes and sits at times in one of the interpreters' rooms in the office and engages in dignified conversation with me. I stayed with his father 3 years ago, since when (until lately) he has been taking an active part with the Turks. Our Ramadi [Ramadi, Ar] victory brought him in, but when he came I was in hospital and missed him. He sent me messages, however. Ever your very affectionate daughter Gertrude