September 10th 1944


I get flying again at Poulton. I do the pinpointing exercise in 15 and 20 minutes, much to everyone’s amazement, but fail to find Welshpool on a dual cross-country in a Harvard and will be allowed another try tomorrow. If I fail again, then off the course I go, damn it, and there’s nothing left.

I go and meet Jill again last night and stop on the way home for a bit of kissing – she has even let her hair down in my honour – but find she is leading me up the garden path and then shutting the gate. She is 23 and married five years. I say I won’t meet her again, but then arrange to ‘close my account’ tomorrow, foolish perhaps, as she may not turn up, and it’s damn cold cycling home these nights. It seems to hurt more than I expected, as she really is a nice (no – charming may be the word) girl. So now I am no better off than when I arrived a week ago. However “better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all.” I play some squash with David Crook and read his book “Spitfire Pilot“.

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