 Prudence McCoy My Diary. Again Tuesday: I had the most amazing experience today! I was rummaging through a whack of odds and sods that had piled up in the guest house and came across a dusty old steamer trunk of my mother’s. It was stuffed full of things -- of mine – that Mumsie had apparently accumulated while I was growing up. Dolls, dresses, silly little drawings, rocks and shells from the beach, a locket of my hair, that sort of thing. My God! Growing up, I was never quite sure my mother knew she had a daughter. She always seemed too busy to notice, what with her column and books and flitting from continent to continent. But, then I find this trunk. She’d never said a word about it. Not one. Just quietly collected memories. Of me. And speaking of memories, at the bottom of the trunk I found a diary I’d kept as a child. I started writing it when I was about six. Continued until I was eleven, at which point I apparently decided I was too bloody mature for such childish blathering and stopped writing. What a shame. I read it from cover to cover. I laughed, cried, laughed some more. I can’t believe I was ever that innocent or silly. But I was. I was a little girl growing up so fast -- lonely, confused, delighted, overwhelmed, enchanted. I’d forgotten what it felt like way back then, when I didn’t know anything, but thought I knew absolutely everything. Thank God I wrote it all down. Any way, I made a decision today. I’m going to start writing a diary again. I guess today, they’re called ‘blogs’… which has something to do with the internet, I suppose. Whatever. One of the things that makes my work as a writer, columnist and t.v. show host so exciting is that I get to meet, talk to and share ideas with thousands of friends and fans from around the world. You tell me so much about yourselves. You give me so much. Well, I think it’s time for me to do the same. I love getting to know all of you. I suspect you might enjoy learning something about me. So, here goes: I’m going to start writing my diary againThe good, the bad, the ugly. And I’m going to share it all with all of you. All right, let’s be real: I’m not going to share it all with you. I mean, I am English,. We’re an achingly private people. Discreet, polite. My mother, for example, never shared anything about herself with me, or with anyone else, as best I could tell. She was like a bloody Sphinx. She’s probably spinning in her grave right now, horrified that I’m even thinking about sharing my thoughts with you. Good. The exercise will do her good. And the diary will do me some good, too. Wednesday...... Read Latest Entry (entry18) |