Dear Diary,
Michael came to the house as arranged but in a worse state than expected. He was cycling to work this morning when a lorry, with a plank overhanging the side, overtook him and knocked him off his bike. He was taken to Oldchurch Hospital, patched up and sent home. He still looked pretty shaken up when I saw him.
Hi!,
This is that man of yours attempting another masterpiece, says he. Maureen, did I ever tell you that you are beautiful? Well, darling, you are. And after these very original lines I’ll continue.
You know for a girl who says she hasn’t much to write about, you wade through a hell of a lot of pages, tell me dear, what is your secret? Perhaps you drink Horlicks with a dash of gin, immediately before retiring for the night/morning or something.
Dear Diary,
I don’t think I can reproach myself at all. I said all I had planned to. Maybe it was a half-hearted attempt but I was only trying to let him down lightly and make him say the final words. This gets worse and worse.
Darling Maureen,
This the great egg eater reporting from a little ol’ island at the end of the Med on the left hand side. How are you my pet, looking forward to your holiday I bet (poetry!)
The past week has been pretty fair in many ways. First and most important was a charming ‘little’ letter plus some very attractive photographs from a certain young lady from Dagenham.
ALAMORE 