My dear Mother and Father,

I was again interrupted upon Monday with my weekly letter by F. Gordon Wood, who has stayed up here for two days for an organ festival. He seems to get more + more depressed about the fate of Caldicott.

The master of St Catherine's [sic] College – Rev. Rushmore and Mrs Rushmore 'have requested the pleasure of my company' + that of Paul Fitte's at tea mext Sunday, which shall prove moderately interesting and shows a certain merit because by no means everybody is invited to tea. Yesterday there was a big rag here being November 5th. I didn't see any of it at all, but I read about in the papers this morning and seemes to me to have been pretty absurd.

I played hockey last Thursday against Duxford Aerodrome for Cam. H. C. + played a pretty good game at back – with aeroplanes zooming over our heads – and always having a pleasant feeling of apprehension – that one might at any moment duck a little bit too low – there was an international playing on the other side! We lost –

I've got a frightful lot of work to-do + have chosen a rather grim time of the afternoon to write this letter as I have a lecture in half an hour + it'll take me a quarter of an hour to get to Bowes + Bowes, five minutes to buy a book, + thence ten minutes to get to the lecture hall. Thanks awfully my dear mother for your very very sweet letter.

Heaps of love.

Malcolm.