I’m writing this in a flat I’ve rented in London, near the British Museum. I came up because I was at a bit of a loose end: still in the army, but jobless. I would put on my uniform and go and talk to people in various government offices, each of whom simply passed me on to someone else. I was going a bit mad, probably. I’m still taking pills for my headaches, which are becoming much, much rarer but really lay me low when they come on. My bad arm, though pretty well healed, can’t do all that much. I can hold a packet of cigarettes, or a book, or my paintbox in my left hand, and I’ve taught myself how to get dressed without help. I’m not crippled, thank God, just maimed … I’m joking, Zoë, but there’s a streak of self-pity in me now which I absolutely despise. It’s far worse, and far more disfiguring, than my various wounds. That, of course, was what was sending me slowly round the bend.

But it turns out that my grandfather was absolutely right when he told me not to worry. I’ve ended up on a ladder again. Karma? I’d like to believe in karma but I don’t think the world could ever make that much sense. Anyway, I was having a cup of coffee in a French cafe in Soho – yes, we have coffee here, but none of that posh coffee bean stuff: pure dandelion root, my dear – when I saw an old friend of mine crossing the street. It was the same chap who tried to arrange for my first letter to be delivered to you (I’m afraid that one never reached you). He’s Greek, from Smyrna, in fact – name’s Christopher Dimitriou. His parents brought him to London in 1922. I’ve known him since art school. He looks a bit like a Greek icon, and that’s the style that he paints in as well: huge, gloomy, mystical canvases. To cut a long story short, we went out for lunch and when he heard I was at a loose end, he promptly took me round the corner to a rather notorious private club called the Gargoyle (I’ve always wanted to see inside, because they’re supposed to have two beautiful Matisses – alas, they’ve sold them). He introduced me to none other than the head of the War Artists’ Advisory Committee, Mr Kenneth Clark. We had a sort of impromptu interview there and then, which I thought I’d failed spectacularly because I’d had a couple of glasses of wine on top of a headache pill. Turns out I passed. Clark sent me a telegram the next day, telling me to report to him at the National Gallery. So I am, as of this moment, an Official War Artist. I’m going to draw and paint the war, and get paid for it as well. My contract does say that everything I produce will belong to the Crown, which is fine by me. Now I’m just waiting for my first commission. It’s all quite extraordinary.