S&TSG - It's 1991 and I like pancakes
Last weekend, I was back at my parents’ house. I was finally de-cluttering my childhood bedroom after, ooh, about 27 years of putting it off. I haven’t lived there for five years and my dad is itching to turn my room into a study. Like any spring clean, it was cathartic – and The Salvation Army now love me for the six bags of loot I wrestled through their door. But by 10pm that evening, I was still thinking about what I’d discovered in the bottom of the wardrobe. Coated in two inches of dust and nestled beneath my birth certificate was my 1991 diary.
It was red, faux-leather and handily fannypack-sized. My gran had handed it to me on Christmas Day 1990, uttering the immortal words, ‘You’ll never regret keeping a diary.’ I didn’t believe her. I was 10 years old and, quite frankly, annoyed because I’d wanted a pair of roller skates. But now, as I sat cross-legged on my stupidly narrow single bed, wondering how the hell I never fell out of it, I realised she was right. Harking back to the days of yore was comforting. Back when the most important things in my life were fish fingers, going to Brownies on Friday and climbing trees with Ann next door. What’s more, apart from my dad, brother, granddad and Jason Donovan, men didn’t feature.
These days, however, my diary would run something like this: ‘Had meetings all morning. Tried to sort electricity bill – failed – try again tomorrow. Thought about calling him – hid phone in drawer to stop me from SMSing. Booked bikini wax. Stayed late at work. Arrived late for pub quiz. Almost SMSed him during the music round.’
Thankfully, life wasn’t always like this. In fact, my diary entry on the exact same day, 18 years ago in 1991, read: ‘Played my recorder. Done Roman numerals at school. Mum made pancakes again. I like pancakes.’ Wasn’t life simple when all you had to do was write about pancakes, pull on your Tommy Takkies, fix a ponytail to the side of your head and skip next door to knock for your best friend? A day in the life of me, aged 10, was little more than a procession of meals, hobbies and hanging out with whoever my favourite person was that day.
The truth is, life only started getting complicated when I discovered boys. I haven’t written a diary since 1991, thank goodness. I can’t imagine anything worse than stumbling across an Adrian Mole-style record of my angsty teenage years. (‘Do I take my retainer out to kiss him? Why, oh why, won’t Levi Bailey notice me? He’s, like, the coolest boy in school!’) I’m not about to start keeping a diary now either. These days, I barely have time to write down appointments and friends’ birthdays, let alone my innermost thoughts and feelings or what l had for lunch. I’m quite happy to forget the more recent string of disastrous dates or the moment l was dumped by SMS. Why would I want to document this kind of information? Just in case l wanted to reminisce about it one day?
Likewise, l don’t need a hardback day-to-day diary in order to remember my happiest, most life-changing experiences from the past 27 years in all their technicolour glory.
I’m not saying I want to go back to 1991. After all, I had bad hair and a flat chest. And boys? Well, they smelt. The older and wiser me now knows that boys turn into men. Yes, they can still be nothing but trouble, but they’re also the source of much excitement, mystery and passion. What’s more, some of them are gorgeous and, even if they’re not, they can still make you laugh and treat you like you’re dead special. Some don’t smell too bad either.
Yes, now I like boys. And boys like me. Not often the ones who I want to like me but that’s all part of the challenge, right? Which is why today’s diary reads something like this: ‘Hit YDE for a new outfit for tomorrow’s date. Thought about calling him but decided to send an SMS. Watched Greys. Ate Romany Creams. I like biscuits.’