Finally managed to get a copy of this extract of Virginia Woolf’s diary in which she lets rip ( to put in kindly ) about my grandparents.

My grandmother Doris, who I never met, had a book of poetry published by the Woolf’s Hogarth Press and despite being  “an ironmongers daughter” flitted on the fringes of the Bloomsbury group.

But the might Woolf clearly did not think much of her or my lovely ‘Grampa Ralph’

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