2.30 Tuesday
I should really be finishing off my skirt in the study - but the weather was too much for me so I just walked out.
It's the most perfect day of my holidays except that you're not here. As long as God continues to make days like these - Spring sunshine on winter earth and bare, buddy trees - warm sniffy air, and aeroplanes and cocks and starlings making their several noises - I shall always think of you. It's very funny - and I dare say there's a physcological explanation, but for ever and ever a lovely day will always make me think of places like Fort William and Shere and Wensley - and you in your new plus fours.
I wrote you a letter (a very special one, being the 101st) on Sunday evening - it was distinctly different from anything I've written before, but as, on reading it through on Monday morning, I couldn't decide whether it was absolute tripe - or what I'd meant to to be, an (being Monday morning) the balance being in favour of the former, I fortunately refrained from sending it.
Pam 'phoned to put off going to the dance with Jack this evening, so he says he won't go - that leaves just Jill and Renny out of our party - a bit of a shock for poor Jean Dunbar. Andy was going to take me to the pictures in Walton - but he's not coming down for his car until Saturday now.
Flip is in the throes of a bilious attack and is in bed looking ghastly - so I'm here all alone at the moment - as Jill started school today.
I'm coming up tomorrow - Mr Lingwood is playing bridge with Mummy in the evening so I'll stay up with you - if I shan't be in your way? (go on, make some nasty remark!)
Please, darling, you will come down next weekend, won't you? as it's the last one in the holidays. Perhaps I can meet you in Richmond at 1.30 - so we ahve the whole of Saturday afternoon and Sunday.
How did the lecture go? Did you create the right impression? - And how did your mother like your room? Has she gone home yet?
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