Not much of a party on Christmas day. I organise myself plenty of squash about three times a week. New Years Eve I go to our mess dance and get rather intoxicated. I do a Highland fling with Fairweather, he in full Highland dress, and my own conception of a sword dance round an empty bottle of whisky. I do a “heavy line” with Mary Kinloch, one of the local blondes, and I think she gets rather frightened by my intentions.
Yesterday Ramsey and I go across to the Allans and play bridge. A letter from Mike Jacobs, now on the Burma border somewhere. I am trying to get my hands on a Fairchild, as I have not flown for about four months now. No hope of going home. Tom Pierce is W/C a/c Delhi and David Yorke a Group Captain. Farquahar is with Wingate and I hear from Bernard Fergusson that it’s no good me trying to cope with my malaria.