My Dearest Sylvia,
Happy birthday, my love!
I’m so glad that you’re enjoying yourself, but I hope not so much that you won’t want to come back. Whatever happened to the city girl that didn’t like slopes?
I have written before, but of course I sent it to Florida. I also tried to ring Florida, but the operator couldn’t find the number in the directory. (No P. Phillips in the directory.)
It is a little lonely at the flat. The phone was actually installed only two days ago, not as originally planned two weeks ago. I’ve spent most of the time at the hospital and keeping Jack company at other times. He is a depressing element sometimes! Anyway, he is going up to Scotland next week and then after that to Spain with another friend (male, of course), so that should keep him out of mischief.
The people that I’m working with are fairly pleasant. They’re all in the process of finding new jobs, and it seems there is a celebratory farewell in the pub every week for someone who is leaving. They’re all so involved in the search for their new jobs—such a bore. I find it hard to take them all seriously. Medical people seem to be the same the world over.
Well, my love, I am eagerly awaiting your return. Even though I am busy during the day, I think about you constantly, and I miss your company even more in the evenings. I miss your body even more at night.
Keep enjoying yourself, but don’t forget about your barbarian lover in London.