When I was about nine years old one of my aunties bought me a diary for Christmas. You know the type i with My Diary scrawled across the front in pretty writing and a lock with a miniature key to stop people from reading your “secrets”. I’m sure every little girl gets one at some stage. Mine even had my name on the front, inside a giant red heart. Exciting stuff. Up until that day I’d never even thought about keeping a record of my life, my thoughts, my feelings. But as soon as my auntie presented me with that diary I felt compelled to use it. Every evening I would record the events that my nine year old self considered to be important.
“It was sunny today so we were allowed on the field at lunch time. After school I played out. We had sausages and chips for tea. S__ (step-dad) is mean. He wouldn’t let us put cartoons on cos he wanted to watch Countdown.”
Now that I’m older I seem to feel the same compulsion to keep my blog up to date. Even though my life is boring, even though all I do most days is go to work, I can’t possibly go more than a day or two without writing something.
Why is that I wonder?