52 Tavistock Square, W.C.1

Saturday [9 January 1926]

Isn't it damned? Here I am in bed with the flu, caught the moment I'd written to you about the delights of fever. 
Hot and sticky describes it. But what I'm writing about is Tuesday. I hope to be perfectly well, but infection? 
Shan't I give it you again? I think you'd better ring up on Tuesday morning. You see, if you came, I should let 
you in without fail, whatever the risk for you—I do want so much to see you. And it'll be 5 days by then and so I 
dont think there can be any risks: its only conscience.

No: I'm not susceptible to the mind: only the body (I think) and Tommie [Stephen Tomlin], tho' 
sprightly as an elf, is misshapen as a woodpecker—Whereas Vita—beech trees, waterfalls and cascades of blue 
black paper—all so cool and fruitful and delicious, especially when one's got a little temperature. I'm so furious: 
I was to begin that wretched novel [To the Lighthouse] today, and now bed and tea and toast and the usual 
insipidity. Oh damn the body.

But it is a great comfort to think of you when I'm not well—I wonder why. Still nicer—better to see you. 

So I hope for Tuesday.
(I'm not at all bad)
No news of Clive

Yr V.W.

A very nice dumb letter from you this morning. Tell me about the Boy Scouts?