Overcast, but warm day. Nothing of any interest happens at the YP, though Anne seems to have given everyone a cold. Carol went round sneezing all afternoon.
Still no word from June, and I'm now feeling quite desperate. My apetite is nearly non-existant, and for four days I've had a terrible sinking feeling in my stomach. At about 5.20 I passed the Bottomley residence on the 33 bus, and saw a pair of June's jeans fluttering in the breeze on Mrs B's little washing line. So, although I've had no word from the darling creature herself, the trousers proved to me, and indeed to everyone who cares to look, that June does actually exist. This is a relief anyway, because for a day or two I have felt that the whole of Saturday evening was a mirage or dream, conjured up by my poor demented brain.
The bus journey made a nice change from the train, which is all very nice, but Judith tends to become slightly overbearing at times.
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