I go out on Sunday evening to a news theatre and then look for a drink, but all the usual joints are shut. I eventually go to some pub off Regent Street where there are two RAF types, drink until 9pm and retire to bed.
Monday I go to “Flights” and show him the uniform, then to Grindlays and on down to Deal. A nice bed and not too much food and damn boring. I go out two nights in succession, looking for anything, having seen a few pilots in the streets of Deal in daylight, but despite visiting four pubs not a soul do I see. There are some Wrens around and one was to be billeted here yesterday, but now she isn’t coming, so I must resign myself to a week of “austerity”.
The Aunt sees some fat girl she knows in Deal High Street and has invited her for a drink, but I think I prefer “austerity”. Of course Hawarden may recall me before the 6th, in which case it will be OK. I feel better, though I can still feel my right ear and throat and do not sleep too well, having these damn sweats.