Old Vicarage School
Richmond
Friday 6pm
Dear Old Thing,
this is a letter from the depths of my heart - (if it has any - which I'm beginning to doubt)
At the moment (being the night after the morning before) I'm simply bowed down with misery - I'm so damnably unhappy and self-pitying that I felt I had to write to you instead of making a fool of myself by bursting into tears. (Bear with me a little!)
It's mostly because I'm a tired, thankless and discontented little beast - and I long so frightfully much just to have you looking at me again.
I had such a wonderful time last night that this anti-climax is too great for me - so I don't know that you're altogether good for me.
Also I've had a stinking day as Miss Olsson had 4 teeth out last night and has spent today in bed - so I've been part taking her classes.
This afternoon I backed out of games (feeling them quite beyond me) and took out an assortment of tickets for our Old Girls Dramatic to sell them to people I knew in Richmond. I got 12/6 - returned home dead but triumphant to find I'd lost the 10/- note. - It's absolutely gone and I suppose I'll have to fork out - curse, curse, blow, damn!
- Anyway, now you'll have to content yourself with an abstract Christmas present - because I haven't a bean!
I woke up this morning dreaming we were in a long narrow room crammed with men & girls in evening dress all holding hands and looking at you - and you were systematically dancing with each girl in turn - until I suddenly lost my temper completely and said "you are a fool! - you can't possibly get through them all!" - But it was quite nightmarish the number you intended to wade through!
Another thing that reflects on my present disgruntled disposition is just having seen Mummy and the whole family who are meeting Mr Lingwood and all going home to a hot dinner! - "oh, you envious, selfish, callous, disagreeable little cad, Mary - what is the matter with you"?
Please, Terrick, I can't help any of it just for the moment, and I feel so hellishly as if I was going to cry - Heavens, I must stop this!
Let's pretend I'm standing in a crisp wind on the top of a Scotch mountain - with a red face and cold feet - and you've looked up from the bottom and seen me, and you're climbing up towards me in your new plus four suit which smells so nice and comforting and tweedy that ---
Oh gosh! I don't know - but it'd be jolly good.
Why, oh why, am I such a weak fool? - Pray God I shall grow stronger one day.
Mary P. Ormiston
(and I haven't had any tea either)
P.S. write me a nice sensible - bossy - superior letter - will you?
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