“Hell hath no fury…” I don’t take much notice of the Dorothy dame at Hodnet’s Monday dance, and she gets damned annoyed. On 23rd we hear of the fall of France and have a party in the Mess with the dozen or so French course pilots. I get up on a table and sing “A troopship leaving Bombay” with my own two verses and then retire to bed. Later I organise myself three days leave, plus a day off, and get a lift in an Oxford from Hinstock to Donibristle with one Lt MacDonald RNVR. We fly over Blackpool tower and Moffat and see the Isle of Man to port. I get put up in the wardroom at Donibristle and of course find that I have packed no lungi.
This morning I bus to Crail and find Mhairi has organised a bed and breakfast, but nothing else. I have a beer and 20 Horlicks tablets for lunch, then Mhairi gets off 2.45 to 6.30 and we bus over to Elie and back for tea. Crail crowded out for some reason. I am dissatisfied with this sort of life. I know what I want but cannot find it. Some 3000 pewits on Chetwynd airfield.