Dear Diary

I am aware that my blog has hardly been full of sparkling repartee and Noel Cowardesque wit recently.  I am coming over all Pooterish, but without the amusement levels.

This is, I believe, due to the constant presence of the CLD ™, looming menacingly everywhere I turn.  I have not wanted to blog all week. This is virtually unheard of, and has worried me alarmingly.  I have however, used my strong sense of Catholic guilt, to push me onwards in an ever more mundane catalogue of things wot I dun.

Today, when faced with the fact that the children and I have spent all day cleaning the house, except for the times we went to the tip, the charity shop and the chip shop, and the hiatus for cake and consolation at granny’s house, I was tempted not to bother.  My blog entries at the moment remind me very much of my diaries from when I was ten.

I got up. I brushed my teeth.  I watched Saturday Superstore.  I wish I could go on the telly.  Donna at school went on Saturday Superstore singing as Annie. I hate Annie. I don’t want to go on if I have to sing Annie, but I expect they could find other stuff for me to do.  I am wearing my red, Liverpool tracksuit today. I hate football, but my tracksuit is cool and if I say I support Liverpool the boys are less mean to me at school because everyone supports Liverpool, even though we don’t live in Liverpool.  I love Adam Ant. I played his record ten times today until mum asked me to stop.  I also wish Tucker Jenkins from Grange Hill was my big brother.  That would be ace.  I had seven Party Rings this afternoon while I was watching that weird black and white film on BBC2.  It made me cry. And I felt a bit sick.  I think that was the Party Rings. I don’t care. We had spaghetti bolognese for tea and watched Dr. Who.  I didn’t hide behind the sofa this week.  I hate my brother.  I am sure he got a bigger portion of pudding than me.  I wish I was sixteen and could stay up all night long. It would be ace.  I spent my pocket money on a Mars Bar and a copy of Jinty.  Did I mention I love Adam Ant? I am writing this under the bed covers with my brilliant torch that shines three colours.  If mum finds out she is going to kill me.  She says I will go blind.  I hope she doesn’t realise I have concealed a cheese sandwich and some mini meringues under my pillow for a midnight feast.  Midnight feasts are ace. I feel like I am at Mallory Towers. I wish my mum and dad would send me to Mallory Towers.  I bet I would love going to boarding school.  I hate ordinary school.  Would they make me do cross country at Mallory Towers, or could I just swap it for double swimming in that excellent natural rock swimming pool by the sea? I bet I could.  That would be ace.

etc.

(The thing about the cheese sandwiches and meringues actually happened.  She did find out.  This was mainly due to the fact that I put them under the pillow with no protective wrapping. I then fell asleep, forgot they were there, and woke up with pillows sandwiched together with mashed cheese sarnie and melted meringue.  It was not a good day for me. Or the pillows.)

I always used to mention that I had brushed my teeth when I wrote my diary as a child.  I am not sure why.  I think it is because if my mum ever read it, she could at least be sure of my dental hygiene.  This might, theoretically have bought me brownie points for all the other things I had written that she would not have approved of.

Unlikely.

I don’t think she did read them, and if she did she either gave up after slipping into a coma of boredom, or laughed herself stupid.

I would never read my children’s diaries, should they ever take up keeping them.  I would rather not know about anything at all.  Ignorance is indeed bliss in these situations.

I sometimes wish I still had my diaries.  I kept them sporadically from the age of eight until I was in my mid twenties.  I then lugged them around in a huge cabin trunk for many years until I decided that I needed to make a break with the past and had a huge bonfire, on which the diaries, and many other incriminating documents went.  I think I kept my letter for being a runner up in the Blue Peter silver jubilee competition (signed by John Noakes, and paw printed by Shep, no less), and everything else went into the inferno.

I remember snippets of things I wrote, but I think I would actually quite like to have the early years back.  I was so utterly rubbish then, they would be hilarious.  I’m not sorry I burned everything from the age of 14 onwards. I think it was a wise move considering how much Sylvia Plath I was imbibing at the time, and the fact that those were the nervous breakdown years.  Some things are best sent into oblivion.

 

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