I’ve got a lovely cigarette burn on my hand. Quite like old times. Well, seven months old times. I was talking (and according to dad I’d be dumb if I didn’t have any hands) and I sorta stabbed myself. Boy, did I yell. They thought a bomb had dropped on the office.
Well, this certainly is quick work. I received a second letter from Michael this morning yet he could only have got mine yesterday. I have never read so much rubbishy trash in all my life and so insulting! I was furious.
Thank you for your letter. I expect this will be the last letter you will receive from me for a while. The next one will probably be all about your holiday. It does not seem possible that when you read this, there will be less than 2 weeks until you fly over.
D’you know something? I’ve come to the conclusion that I rather like you.
I feel happy. Don’t know why. The days are beginning to whizz by like anything. Five weeks Friday! I think that sounds better than 37 days, don’t you?
I’ve just written to Lena and made the final, final arrangements (and I’ve not seeing double I really do mean that twice). I’m meeting her either outside Customs or by the information desk. I sound pretty knowledgeable in my letter.
It’s a hot sunny day. I’ve about 50 days to do in the RAF and I have to reply to about 40 odd pages of your latest letters. That is the general situation at the moment and the only thing worrying in me is what to write about.
This morning, of all things, I got a letter from Michael. It was quite drooly really, considering the writer. He repeated the same old arguments and it annoyed me that I couldn’t answer them as he had put them.