And then I’m cross with Vita: she never told me she was going abroad for a fortnight- didn’t dare; till the last moment, when she said it was a sudden plan. Lord! Lord! I’m half amused though; why do I mind? What do I mind? How much do I mind? I shall fire up and accuse her, and see to the bottom of her vessel. One of the facts is that these Hildas are a chronic case; and as this one won’t disappear and is unattached, she may be permanent. And, like the damned intellectual snob I am, I hate to be linked, even by an arm, with Hilda. Her earnest aspiring competent wooden face appears before me, seeking guidance in the grave question of who’s to broadcast. A queer trait in Vita - her passion for the earnest middle-class intellectual, however drab and dreary. And why do I write this down? And whom do I tell when I tell a blank page?
Virginia Woolf, from a diary entry dated 5 August 1929. [Vita Sackville-West had gone for a walking holiday in the Val D’Isere with Hilda Matheson, first director of Talks for BBC, who had become one of her intimate friends.]