My 25th year found me living alone in Drumtara, pregnant, poor and lonely. I was also very bored so, to pass the time, I kept a journal. It ran to two volumes and I have to admit it was one of the most tedious, self-obsessed and whiney journals ever written. It didn't contain an ounce of humour or interest and every time I've looked at those two notebooks since I have cringed.
So why did it take me more than three decades to rid myself of these woeful books ?
Today, during an epic attic clearance, I decided the time had come to burn the dreary things and the only place in the house with a burning fire is in Pearlie's room.
What's that ye have there?
Just some old diaries.
What! Reach them to me!
They're not yours Pearlie. They're mine. Just some old diaries I kept when I was in my 20s.
Setting them carefully on the fire.
I'd love to read those!
You would not.
Piling the coal around them.
I'd have been very interested in those.
I bet you would.
I felt a tiny bit guilty depriving Pearlie of the pleasure of finding out what a shallow twat I was when I was 24 but very, very happy to be rid of the reminder. Thanks be for the cleansing power of flames.