I wish you could see my cottage. It pleases and tickles me. No kitchen, no food, no cooking equipment, no bed, no drains, no sanitation. No water even, while this drought-in-the-deep-springs persists. There are two rooms, one book-lined the other slenderly furnished with a gramophone and records. Upstairs is one chair, downstairs one chair. A bath and a boiler, in cupboards: two sleeping bags, zip-fastened and labeled in embroidery MEUM and TUUM. When night falls the cottager takes up his bag, unfolds it on the piece of floor he momentarily prefers, and sleeps. No good for your infirmity, but I’ve hitherto been always uncouthly well. The village, a mile off, provides meals.
-T.E. Lawrence to Frederic Manning (November 1934)