When I was home for Christmas I discovered an old diary from when I was sixteen. It was absolutely brilliant. Like something out of Dawson’s Creek but with fewer big words, more self-loathing and dozens of train tickets and cinema tickets taped inside. I really was a precocious little madam (I still am, actually). The whole thing is filled with self-pity and literary gems like “I don’t care. I love my friend and hate my enemies. Kind of stated the obvious there, but never mind.” It’s also filled with vicious comments about friends of mine who’re in ‘relationships’. It’s nice to know that even back then I was a bitter singleton who didn’t think she deserved to be loved.

After reading it and giggling to myself in the same way I will do when I read back on this blog in a few years (or months) time, I put it back in the bottom of the drawer from whence it came. No doubt I’ll discover it again in a few years and have another good laugh.

Either that, or my mother will read it.