There is limited information about Joan Wyndham available on the internet readily. She was educated at a convent, but went to study theatre at Royal Academy of Dramatic Art, and ended up in the Women's Auxiliary Air Force for five years. After the war, she opened Oxford's first espresso bar (an achievement which seems to be hung about her neck like a medal); and she also ran a hippy restaurant in London's Portobello Road. She cooked at major pop festivals and catered for actors, and wrote on cookery for women's magazines. She is married and has two daughters.
Her diaries, which have been published in several versions, are considered very lively and colourful. The newspaper 'Scotland on Sunday' called her 'A latter-day Pepys in camiknickers'.
Christmas Day 1942 My first Christmas in Scotland.
I had behaved so well for the last few months, and everyone here thought I was such a nice, quiet intellectual little girl - but not any more! We were up at the men's Mess, and it was fantastic - colossal buffet, unlimited booze. I decided to break out and go on a jag. I can't remember when I got so drunk or felt so exhilarated, except possibly when I went out with my dad.
I have an awful feeling I called the CO a stinker - it was one of those religious arguments about whether the popes had mistresses. 602, our international squadron, flew over for the party and parked their Spitfires practically in our backyard.
I remember waltzing and eating plum pudding simultaneously, and then being sick in the laurels. A very nice pongo drove me home and wanted to kiss me but I said No, and he said God, what a swine I am trying to take advantage of a gel when she's tight!
As an extra I found this From Joan Wyndham,
Love is Blue: A wartime journal (1986):
'I don't know whether it's Hans's fault or mine, but I don't feel a thing. Of course, I just love being in bed with him and kissing him, but apart from that nothing happens.'
' I know a doctor,' Oscar said, 'a friend of mine went to him who had the same problem as us, and it seems we've got a thing called a clitoris, which makes us have an orgasm.'
' Yes,' I said, 'I've heard about that before.' 'Well, Dr Schliemann says they're very often not big enough, and he gives you some kind of ointment to make them grow.'
This thought so inspired us that we looked up Dr S in the phone book, and made an appointment to see him that very afternoon. The consulting room was rather depressing, with a faint smell of antiseptic. A greenish light filtered through the blinds on to the huge mahogany desk. It was like being in an aquarium. A small, balding chap with glasses came in and said cheerily, 'Well, who's the first victim?' Oscar went to sit in the waiting-room, and I was laid out on a couch and examined in a most embarrassing way.
Aha!' said Dr Schliemann, peering through his bifocals, 'I see you haven't got a man in your boat!' He sounded rather pleased at this discovery. Then he went on to explain about the clitoris being a kind of magic trigger, but not to worry if I hadn't got one because he would give me a special cream to rub on every night. It costs thirty bob, and in no time at all he guarantees that I will have a clitoris 'long enough and strong enough to hang a copper kettle on'!
I duly forked out the thirty bob and received a small silver tube with printed instructions on it. Oscar and I had been rubbing away like mad with the magic cream for over a week now. She does it when I'm in the bath, and vice versa. Neither of us has noticed any appreciable difference in the length of our clitorises (clitori?) but we're certainly having plenty of orgasms!
In fact we find orgasms are quite easy to have provided there aren't any men around, doing all the wrong things.