A shocking surprise in the post today - my first letter from Father, since I arrived here (I write every Sunday of course, but he is a very busy man.) Despite the advantages of modern travel, being on the far side of the world means a fair bit of advanced planning - and in my last missive I had asked about setting a date for my return trip. I told him I felt sure that Flying Flea #8 could swiftly be put back in flying condition, with what I have already learned at Songmark.

    Despite the Academy closing for the Christmas holidays for 3 weeks - Father tells me he is taking an official inspection tour of Eastern Matabeleland, to inspect the anti-tank fortifications there. So, far from being back in the cheerful snows and rainstorms of Home, I am to remain here till the new Term starts - Father is advancing me more than sufficient money to stay at the Marylebone hotel should I wish to.

   (Later). I have been looking through the Academy's copy of the Military Gazette, and "Jane's All The World's Fighting Trenches", for Father's destination. Though the section on "M" has forty pages on the French Maginot line, there is not a word mentioned about Matabeleland. Very odd indeed.

    Helen seems quite delighted with the news - being sadly orphaned, she is staying here too, having been left very well provided-for by her late Father. She tells me the Academy closes down completely, all the Staff taking a well-earned break from their labours. (I certainly don't believe what I have heard about their activities on their "Time-off", and resolutely believe they spend the Christmas season in quiet celebration with their friends and families. Ethyl's story about Miss Blande's adventures last year is little short of libellous.)

    Molly seems somewhat envious, as she will be returning to the Chicago winter, where it seems there are snowfalls that can reach tail-high in a morning. She has various suggestions as to what we might do while away from supervision - some of them, I will Definitely not be following up on. I think she must have been talking with Ethel too.

    Alas, Helen had to point out that staying on between terms does not mean we are free to do as we please - while we remain on the island, the staff are in some ways "in loco parentis" and obliged to keep half an eye on us. Neither can I stay in the Marleybone, though now I can easily afford it - the SponTari Guest House on South Island gives Songmark students discounted rooms in the "off" season, and by all accounts is run most respectably.

    I could wish Helen would not pull Quite such a face whenever she says "Respectably."

December 12th, 1934

   Definitely a wild and stormy day, for a crossing to Moon Island and a rather graphic Safety lesson. In the shelter of one of the seaplane hangars, on a wide concrete apron, we were introduced to two officers of the Rain Islands Naval Syndicate, who were quite swathed in thick white overalls with helmets. On the far side of the hangar, we had passed an array of small fuel drums - and soon enough, we gained a lot of respect for their contents, having seen a gallon apiece ignited on the concrete.

    (Memo to myself: though the Gypsy 1 engines of our Tiger Moth trainers use plain 80 octane aviation fuel, I can see we would be a lot safer on diesel - far harder to ignite. 100 Octane burns much hotter, and methanol flares up almost colourlessly. We were told sad stories of fire-fighters not noticing spreading pools of burning methanol, when handling crashed Schneider trophy aircraft and others using "hot" fuels. For the nitro-methanol demonstration, about half a cup rather than half a gallon was used - the results were rather spectacular. Better stick to 80 Octane.)

    Having seen the problem, we were treated to a demonstration of fire-fighting, with appropriate and inappropriate methods. Certainly, the old saying about oil and water not mixing, should apply tenfold when the oil is alight ! One of the instructors deliberately threw cold water over a diesel fire, and it splashed burning fuel everywhere - a good thing he was wearing an asbestos suit, or it would have been definitely Unhealthy.

    It was certainly an impressive demonstration - Molly noticed from the manufacturer's label that one of the firms her Family has a controlling share in, made the methanol (or "Wood Alcohol" as she calls it.) She tells me that it is easy to make - in fact, a fair percent of all her Family's products traditionally contained wood alcohol, even without trying.

    It seems that with the Schneider Trophy being held on Spontoon, the naval base has one of the Pacific's most experienced fuel handling and fire-fighting teams, capable of handling a full range of noxious fluids that designers have been using to wring the maximum horsepower out of their engines. Some of these are distinctly worse than castor oil - the advice given to encountering furfuryl or methyl hydrazine, is to hold one's breath and run upwind as fast as possible.

    (Helen claimed that would be sound practice with most of Molly's Family's product. I had to step in between them, or the nitro-methane might not have provided the biggest bang of the day.)

    Maria seems quite put out on hearing the races are held in August - the height of the Tourist season, but of course the month none of us will be here to see it. In fact, she has been muttering dire things about the Islands having "stolen" the trophy race, which was formerly held in Italy at least some of the time.

    I have had a talk with Miss Devinski, about staying on over the Holidays - a suprisingly painless interview, one might almost have thought she was expecting it. The SponTari Guest House will be booked from December 20th to January 15th for me, and I have been recommended to take in a stock of good books to read. (Presumably not the "Spicy Island Adventures" series that Molly is hiding in her trunk.) 

    Thinking of Molly, she has been quite downcast since the newspapers appeared this morning. One of the features from America carried the obituary of a Mr. Al Dente, a sabretooth gentleman and friend of her family. Quite a dangerous place her home neighbourhood seems to be! The obituary mentioned that he was slain by the guns of J. Edgar Hoover - or possibly the Hoovers of J.Edgar Gunn, the accounts seem a little confused.  Molly is sitting on her bed rolling a pair of "Lucky Dice" that Mr. Dente gave her. Certainly, sevens seem to come up half the time she throws them. 

    (Memo to myself - stop playing Ludo for money with Molly. She is quite unbeatably lucky at the game.)
 

December 14th, 1934

   After three days of simply awful weather grounding all flying, at last the sun shines through, and we head out to our Dance Lessons again. Not alone this time - Jasbir Sind and her bunch have finally got Passes, and are joining us. It seems they sneaked out and worked half the night in the repair sheds, helping their Sophie D'Artagnan fix her wingtip - very odd, that the Staff noticed and we did not. (Though on reflection,  Jasbir HAS been smelling unaccountably of fabric dope this week, causing Prudence A to suspect she's taken to drinking the stuff. By repute, various folk in the Middle East actually drink petrol, which is not Forbidden them by religion. One hopes they are non-smokers too.)

    This trip, we have packed bathing costumes and our approximations to Native sarongs to wear on top - the exercises are rather Physical, and it could be embarrassing if our improvised costumes parted company without a "backup". One hardly realises it at first, but we are constantly thinking of "backups" these days, always packing two parachutes, and planning alternative routes to wherever we are aiming for. A useful sort of qualification, though not on the printed Songmark Prospectus. (The really - Interesting - things, seem not to be printed in public.)

    Anyway - that makes eight of us enrolled in the Native Dance class - and Jasbir has had experience in a similar style at home, it seems. Eight is enough for our own Club, as soon as we train up on the moves. Our version might be less like the dance of the Seven Veils, than the Dance of the Seven wing canvas offcuts, which should at least be cheaper.

    Tiring indeed ! By lunchtime, we had just about mastered the basic steps of a traditional dance "The Summer Palm Tree" - only to discover from the other students that this ancient traditional dance was created here for a film six years ago !  One would scarcely credit it. It seems to be a favourite at the Tourist hotels though, and we have passed The Coconut Grove, where by reputation various "Sophisticated Entertainment" runs nightly all through the tourist season.

    Maria was puzzling slightly about the local idea of Sophisticated Entertainment, given that the whole style is supposed to be centuries old. I suppose to the immigrants arriving from Europe, it seemed better than the good old-fashioned Crude Entertainments of home, such as Barsetshire's annual Shin-Kicking contests or the mass formation Gurning contests that Prudence speaks of from her native Lancashire.

    (EDITOR'S NOTE: Gurning was, and is, the chief contribution of Lancashire to world Culture. It basically consists of pulling extreme facial expressions - anyone who ever managed to pull their lower lip entirely over their head, would be instantly acclaimed as a local Hero.)

    Again, we broke for lunch at the restaurant across the road, "The Missing Coconut". An odd sort of name, for these islands - though now I come to think of it, coconut trees do seem rather inconspicuous around here (Possibly the weather is somewhat too dismal and grey at this time of year. I felt quite at home.) The Hoele'toemi clan were there in full force, the five brothers and two sisters - certainly the climate seems fertile for Some things in the Nimitz Sea !

    I had a long talk indeed with Jirry - certainly, he is in no need of training in dance techniques, though at the "top end" of the tradition things seem quite competitive. Hopefully, next term we might be given some "casual" Passes, to visit the cinema and such - Jirry tells me the local theatres show stark and brooding Expressionist films that are SO Stark and Brooding, that they have been banned in several countries ! Definitely a treat to look forward to. 

    Possibly it may be a Local Tradition, but the actual Natives seem quite - restrained. Sitting next to Jirry all lunchtime, he did not Once try and even put his arm round me, until I managed to contrive an "accident" in that direction. Happily, he seemed quite taken with the idea (though unhappily, we had to part  three minutes later when the next classes started.)

    I really must have more Words with Molly about losing her temper. A larger contingent of the Spontoon Islands Technical High School showed up than last week, and after a few choice words were exchanged, Molly challenged them to a Dance contest before the end of next term. Oh well, naturally we had to back her up, though a "showdown" might be rather premature - after all, by their accents about half the SITHS seem to be native "Spontoonies" and none of those at the Dance lessons look particularly unfit.

    On the return trip, Jonni Hoele'toemi (the eldest sibling) was deep in conversation with Maria, as it seems they have several things in common. Most of his clan were helping out at the Schneider Trophy this Spring, crewing tenders, crashboats, and doing general athletic chores in and out of the water. By the time we had parted on the dock, they were deeply engaged in swapping notes on their favourite racing aircraft - it seems Maria favours her own countrymen (naturally) and enthuses about the redesigned Pregni effort that runs on water-skis rather than floats. I recall seeing a picture of in the Academy's scrapbook, but assumed it was a picture of a crashed rather than a working aircraft - the cockpit is only just clear of the water, heaven help the Pilot in a rough sea.

    Helen comments that the Post Office on Eastern Island is a useful "drop box" for any Correspondence we may have that we might not want our Tutors to open. I'm sure I don't know WHAT she's referring to, never having "entered into Correspondence" with anyone clandestinely. Anyway, I already have most of the parts for a Morse transmitter. Jirry is quite handy with a radio, by all accounts. 

December 15th, 1934

    A day of drama indeed - though one that started dismally enough, waking up with the sound of wind howling around the rooftops and heavy rain hammering at our windows, blown almost sideways at us. Poi for breakfast again (alas!) which at least gave me the chance to be generous to Missy A, who eats the substance like a whale eats shrimps - which may explain a similarity of shapes. Oh, for the breakfasts of Home, with bacon and eggs, devilled kidneys and more courses than one can shake a stick at (I recall making the experiment, when very young.)

    Alas ! The weather was absolutely awful, and none of the water-taxis were running - a rare occurrence, short of an actual typhoon. All the boats were pulled up high on the beach and the sea-lanes were quite deserted, with the exception of a large cruiser slowly heading away from Moon Island for the safety of deeper ocean waters. Not that we were allowed to stay idle - our Tutors called us all down, ordered us outside in our oilskins, and took us across to the airfield to check all the hangars were secured and the aircraft outside tied down.

    Quite a drama - low cloud and tearing gusts, then just as we finish up with our own hangars, the emergency sirens start up from the control tower, and the airport staff appear in oilskins with crash and fire trucks at the ready. Miss Blande and Miss Devinski vanished for a hurried conversation, and come back looking genuinely alarmed - the first time any of us has ever seen them flustered.

    No wonder ! We hear that there is an aircraft requesting emergency landing permission - and not just any aircraft, but a Russian bomber, a Kalinin K-7, a veritable flying battleship, easily the biggest thing flying - and our Airfield is only just long enough in the best of conditions, which today is definitely NOT. They had requested to land far out West on Vostok Island, but the Authorities refused to let them anywhere near their airspace. (Some Political thing, by all accounts - at any rate, it will be the first actual Red Russian aircraft we have seen here.)

    Though we could hardly hear her over the storm, Miss Devinski called for volunteers to help the airport crews - naturally we all volunteered, even "Soppy" Forsythe from Missy K's bunch. With thirty tons of strategic bomber bearing down on us from somewhere in the clouds, homing entirely on Radio LONO by all accounts, definitely none of us was going to be left watching from the sidelines! While they were battling in following the signal, we were working desperately to erect the crash barriers, five rows of a sort of giant steel tennis-net affair at the end of the main runway. Even with gloves, it was awfully hard on the hands, but we managed it just in time - at least, with four minutes to spare.

    It was quite a sight - coming in from downwind in the storm, we heard nothing till we saw it - dropping down from clouds barely two hundred feet above the ocean, searching for the runway as it made a ground speed of hardly sixty miles an hour - an absolutely Enormous elliptical wing, six engines (Seven, as I later found out) and  a tail on great twin booms that seemed to be about to tear off in the gusts. The pilot was marvellous - I heard Helen stop swearing in astonishment as he managed to put his undercarriage down at the very threshold of the runway. Just as well - as the runway was a sheet of water, and the Kalinin seemed to be skiing along rather than landing. We had scattered to each side, and watched it charge into the first crash barrier like a bull through a line of laundry - and the second, and the third. Only the fourth barrier stopped it, wrapped around the big podded landing gear like fishing-nets wrapped round the prow of a speedboat.

    (Dear Diary - it would be nice to record how the grateful crew turned out and cheered, before inviting us out to a slap-up meal at Mahanish's Pilot's bar. What really happened, was that a very scared-looking officer jumped out screaming "Nyet Kamera ! Nyet Kamera!" and about a dozen equally worried crew stood around the aircraft with pistols drawn, dissuading anyone to get too close while the airport Authorities arrived. Ungrateful behaviour ! Maria had a lot to say about the Russian Government, and I for one quite believe her.)

    The good side is, we all were awarded 12-hour Passes to visit Casino Island next Saturday ! Prudence A and Missy K  were grinning "fit to bust" at the prospect, and hardly surprising seeing it only took them forty minutes hard work to get the Passes.

    The Airport staff were more grateful than the crew we saved (Maria was muttering things about Bolsheviks, in Italian) and invited us into the control tower to dry off - normally quite out of bounds to the Public, but absolutely nothing else was in the air that day. Certainly, we were soaked through to the skin and freezing cold by then, as the rain was practically coming in sideways at us. After firing up the oil heaters for us to stand around, one of the airport staff came in with a gallon flagon of "hot grog", a beverage I had only heard of in Pirate books. Molly was whispering that our Tutors would definitely decline the offer on our behalf, but much to our surprise, Miss Devinski sampled a rather large tumbler and gave us permission for a small one apiece. Only "Soppy" Forsythe turned the offer down, and had coffee instead - her family being Quakers, as opposed to the rest of us who were simply shivering.

    Well! I can put this down as Medicinal, and indeed the Second and Third-years are allowed one small flask for expeditions, though by all accounts they have a twenty-page form to complete if they come back having used any. Molly was advising us to take it Very cautiously, which we did. Prudence A attempted to down hers in one gulp, having watched too many swashbuckling films for her own good - I suppose it was of some Educational value as well as Medicinal, as none of us could recall anyone turning that exact colour before.

    Miss Blande and Miss Devinski definitely declined a second glass for us, and after ten minutes warming we struggled back into oilskins for the trip back to the living quarters (wet fur and wet oilskins do NOT mix - or rather, they stick awfully. I was combing out tangles all evening.) As it was Sunday and no lectures were scheduled, we were invited to work out what the crew of the Kalinin would do next. A harder proposition than one might think - though we took the hint when Miss Blande started handing out large-scale navigational charts, weather reports and tables of runway length across the Pacific area.

    Actually, Maria was the first one to spot the difficulties the crew are now facing - according to the emergency landing request they were absolutely out of fuel, having got here only with the help of a steady fifty-knot tail wind all the way from Siberia. To make matters worse, Eastern Island airstrip is too short for them to take off with the full fuel load they need to stand any chance of returning home - and if Vostok still refuses them landing permission, they are stuck here ! To add to their troubles, they have a brand new and fairly secret aircraft never before seen outside Russia, and as soon as the weather clears, every aircraft enthusiast on the Islands will be training binoculars and cameras this direction. (There are a LOT of them, and the Kalinin is far too big to fit in any of our hangars.)

    The next few days should be Interesting, and I would not trade places with the bomber crew for all the tea in China - really, somebody should think of a method of refuelling aircraft in flight - that or building runways a mile long everywhere, a silly idea if ever there was one. Hurrah for flying boats! If the worst came to the worst, a tug could always tow one home.

December 16th, 1934

   The weather continues awfully rough, though a few of the bolder water taxis are risking the trip. Quite a few tales of damage across the island, and one of the hotels is regretting waiting till the off season to replace its roof - the half-repaired roof has rationed itself across most of Casino Island. On Radio LONO (which we manage to listen to before breakfast, now hiding the receivers in the bed frames) there are anecdotes of boats swamped, and dry goods stores that will have to change their titles for awhile.

    Miss Wildford arrived at breakfast, having been stranded by the storm all day on Casino Island - she seems oddly tired, as I might have thought she had plenty of time to catch up on her sleep. Still, she managed to hand us over to the Fairburn-Sykes for another lesson in self-defence - with some fairly graphic examples. Amazing, what a sock full of grit, forcefully swung, can do to a large and quite hard melon ! Messy, too. (Memo to myself: avoid being hit on the head by socks full of grit. And a spare empty cotton stocking in the pocket might someday prove useful in somewhat un-genteel circumstances.)

    Mrs. Fairburn-Sykes proves quite a formidable teacher, having by her account helped with her husband in maintaining order in Shanghai, a definitely lively place by all accounts. Her demonstration on how to defend oneself against an assailant armed with a pointed stick, was quite a piece of gymnastics - maybe someday folk might make films about odd Oriental self-defence methods, but I doubt they would sell. Anyway, this time round I managed to throw Missy K rather than the other way round - and without injury, except to her pride and possibly the floorboards.

    At lunch, some of the Third-year students arrive back from the airfield with news of our newest arrival - despite the crew of twenty having sat up all night guarding the aircraft and each other, the pilot has gone missing ! Major protests in all directions, with the rest of the crew accusing the White Russians of kidnapping - but most of the bets are that he has simply run off, having thought of the reception awaiting him back in Siberia. (Maria reckons he would be employed breaking altitude records - negative ones, down a lead mine.)

    Hurrah ! After lunch, we joined with Jasbir Sind's bunch, having gained permission to form our own dance club - entry fee nil, and all costumes to be made by ourselves. Certainly, one afternoon a week is too little to practice such a strenuous hobby, and with the aid of a suitable radio we were soon getting "into the swing" of a local hula dance.

    Maria expressed an interest in Jasbir's national dances - indeed, it seems both her Uncle and the German leader Mr. Hitler have expressed ambitions to go to India some day soon. Jasbir pointed out that what we had seen on the films, "belly-dancing", is only a very small part of her national dance traditions, and not one that the daughter of a Maharajah would ever be learning. (She told us, in rather excessive detail, just what belly-dancing was originally designed for. Gosh !)

    (Evening): A somewhat depressing time, with Molly and Maria starting to pack their bags - they are travelling on the same Clipper as far as Hawaii, whence Maria heads North to Seattle and thence via a Caproni Transaero II over the Pole back to Europe. A fascinating flight that must be,  fourteen hours through the Polar night, lit only by the aurora above, before seeing dawn somewhere over Iceland.  One hopes that the cabins are heated.

December 17th, 1934

   It looks indeed as if our little band is breaking up - Jasbir is leaving tomorrow night, catching the week's only Imperial Airways flying boat to Humapore, Rangoon and changing there for her home state of Utterly Pradesh.  Helen was quite surprised to learn that things are not quite as the maps depict - though India shows as a solid block of red on the map, in fact many states are independent in all but foreign policy. Hence her Father, the Maharajah, has his own native army (British-trained and equipped), and the makings of an Air Force in progress. Conditions are difficult for flying out there, with only the major rivers proving reliable runways (except in case of drought. Or flood. Or logging rafts getting in the way. And the crocodiles can be a problem, by all accounts.)

    Maria is proving quite a "politico" as my Father would say, and often debates the finer points with Jasbir and Li Han right up to "lights out" at night. Still, one cannot hold it against her, given her Family background. She has few countrymen to talk to out here, although the occasional aircraft does drop by. Not that we get much opportunity to make small-talk with them. One day we may get casual passes to Mahanish's Pilot's Bar as the second and third years do, but until then we are reduced to aircraft-spotting, Maria always in fits of joy at the sight of a Caproni or Piaggio heading over us to the airport or the seaplane base.

    Whatever the flying abilities of the Italian Air Force may be, one cannot but be impressed by the uniforms.  We can spot them half a mile away, without the field-glasses.

    As classes are beginning to "wind down", Helen and I went out this afternoon to South Island, in the company of Miss Pelton and a half-dozen second-year students.  The water-taxi trip was quite long, stopping first at Casino Island before heading round into the teeth of a blustery wind and choppy seas. I am doing my best to cultivate Helen's social graces, but alas it is an uphill struggle.  I shall keep at it ! Given a small boat and a most irritating sea, at least I could join her in demonstrating that while she is vulgarly seasick, I may be indisposed with "mal-de-mer", a far more refined condition.

    (Helen seemed less than sympathetic. and attempted to hit me with a large wet fish.  Happily, years of dodging wet towels in the showers of St. Winifred's has improved my reflexes against that sort of thing quite considerably.)

    Having finally arrived on South Island, we were quite impressed by the grand new resort hotels in the northern bay. But Miss Pelton escorted us out of the main strip, quite out of the village along a track heading up between the two highest points of the island, twenty minutes walk from the jetty.  Quite a place - a great green tunnel of jungle around us, without another sign of habitation till we suddenly came out in a wide clearing, and saw the SponTari Guest House.

    It is quite an impressive place, is the Guest House. Three storeys high, it stands next to a roaring stream, on a big rock platform reminding one of a Japanese castle.  The eaves are low and overlapping, looking like a waterfall as the rain cascades in sheets from one roof section to another. I was quite impressed, though Helen's tail was definitely drooping. I think she was hoping for something a little less rustic, however charming.
    We were introduced to the proprietors, Mr. and Mrs. Tanoaho, both native "Spontoonies". A fascinating pair, who by all accounts have set up here after a long and strenuous career in the import-export trade. Exactly what they imported and exported, they do not make exactly clear, but it seems to have been highly profitable.

    On the way back to the docks, we passed Maria’s church, the South Island Chapel Of The Sacred Heart. Not a hugely imposing structure, but obviously the biggest of its kind for a considerable distance.  The Native islanders seem to have been influenced by it, though I doubt if the Church Authorities quite approve of having the South Island Pie-shop of the Sacred Steak and Kidney built right next door.

December 18th, 1934

   The last official day of Term, hurrah for the hols ! As a matter of fact, we have today off to use our Passes, so after a hasty packing away of books and notes, we piled into water taxis bound for Casino Island.  I believe all of us had detailed plans written up for a day like this, after so long discussing how we could make the most of such a chance.

    Things worked out very nicely, my Morse transmitter having alerted Jirry three nights ago to our good fortune. (My callsign is Osprey, which Maria has been making fun of, seeing that Ospreys unexpectedly plummet from a great height. Maria is no devotee of the dear old Flying Flea.) We met up at a café he recommended, on the West side of the docks, a crowded place full of the wail of steamers, the steam of whalers etc. Though Maria, Molly and Helen went off with Jasbir's group to watch an aeronautical epic, Jirry recommends a small cinema with a very select programme of brooding Expressionist films.

    My ! The audience was mostly islanders, some of them devotees of the genre, and some obviously in from curiosity.  We could easily spot the latter, as the film was so marvellously Stark and Gritty, that every few minutes one of the faint-hearted watchers would dash out of the cinema screaming. (Fortunately it was a silent feature, and one Brooding enough to make "The Cabinet of Doctor Caligari" look like "Steamboat Mickey". )

    (EDITOR'S NOTE: A modern translation might be: "Makes Eraserhead look like The Care Bears Movie.")

    Certainly, it was a new experience, and one I hope to repeat - though one associates cinema rendezvous with shop-girls and waitresses' entertainment - I can definitely see the attraction. As before, Jirry was really very Restrained, but not hard to Encourage. Gosh!

    After a saturation of film, we met up with the rest for lunch, at a pilot's café charmingly titled the Tow Bar. The mural on the front wall depicts a very small tug trying its utmost to shift a rather stubborn-looking Dornier X off a mudflat, an episode that we are told took place not three years ago off Eastern Island. Lunch was excellent, and remarkable for a total lack of Poi on the menu.

 We ordered our favourite drink, Nootnops Blue, in large quantities as ever. I asked Jirry why he always seemed so surprised at this - and we all get rather a shock as he tells us of its actual ingredients.  Quite a shock indeed, we all felt in need of a restorative drink.

    Maria started fuming loudly in Italian (Molly later told me that what she said was not only perverse, but physically impossible except to a trained contortionist) and then announced that she was going to make Missy K wish she had never been born. And then I realised - Missy K had introduced us to the drink just before our Exam, which we failed so awfully ! Being a native "Spontoonie", she surely knew its probable effects on us.

    Hopefully, I managed to defuse Maria, and pointed out that it is the season of Goodwill to all, fast approaching. Still - one cannot but reflect that next term, Missy K had better take great care when we are around.

    In the afternoon, we attended a small native Dance Contest that Jirry and his brothers were competing in. Fascinating ! I  must definitely work hard over the holidays with Helen, practising our exercises ready for the next term (the final dance class of Term is sadly cancelled, so we have more time to work on our beating the Spontoon Technical High School crowd.)

    The hours flew by far too swiftly, and soon I was having to pull Molly and the rest away from such pleasant company, and get us back to the water taxis on time.  As we set out, we could see the Imperial Airways clipper arriving to take Jasbir homewards tonight, and indeed Molly and Maria are setting out at first light tomorrow.  Quite a day, Dear Diary- and indeed it has been quite a term!

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© 2002 Simon Barber