Today

Went to London for the weekend and forgot to take my diary. My diary is my constant companion. I always use plain A4 hardback lined notebooks so that I am not constrained by only having so much space for an entry (my brother's diary, apparently, gives him 12 lines per day..). So I can pour out writing for pages, scribble down something in 2 lines or catch up when I've forgotten to take it with me somewhere

I started this sequence in 1990, originally deciding that I would eschew the very personal "dear diary" stuff.

With the first half of this year being so peculiar, I started making some more personal commentary on my feelings - otherwise I would have burst.

However, when I read other's diaries, it's often the little day-to-day details that resonate, so I don't forget those.

In My Day

I started keeping a diary when I was about 15. As now, they were plain hardback books which I then decorated with pictures from magazines. In 1963, that meant the Beatles, the Rolling Stones etc.

I also peppered my entries with drawings, some of which were none too realistic. I recorded my school life and my vibrant family life. I had, as always, a close, if quirky relationship with my brother David and he obviously influenced me a great deal.

The diary records David's plan to let each other know when were out and that we'd left the key in an agreed place by leaving a note (where? I presume on the front door) saying "ching bop". I am not, and have never been clever enough to work out if there significance in this, outside of our agreed meaning, or whether it was just complete rubbish.

One can track, over the 3 diaries that represent me from 1963-1966, how I became more self-conscious, more serious, if you like, less innocently exuberant.

Lizzie owns that diary now and treasures it as a picture of me at 16 and because it makes her laugh so much.