I mentioned last Friday that my Nana had given me a diary as a Christmas present, because we were off to spend a few months in New Zealand and she wanted me to keep a record of my time there.
It was an inspired present. Not only did it provide excellent training for the discipline of writing this site three times a week, it has also given me a permanent reminder of some of the best times of my life.
A couple of years ago, I started wondering what would happen if I ever lost that diary. It isn’t a work of great literary genius, I was no Anne Frank (although I did use the words ‘attic’ and ‘cupboard’ less often than she does) and I don’t claim that it is a complete record of my time there, but it is a window into my past and I would be very sad to lose it, particularly as it has been with me for so many years.
I decided that the best thing to do would be to put it onto the internet. I don’t know why I thought that was the best option, although it is cheaper and more accessible than, say, sticking it in a bank vault. Somehow, that thought process became a part of the thought process which led to me starting The Memory Blog.
One of the long term aims of this site, therefore, has been to use it as a base for an annotated version of the diary, and what better time to do that than in 2012, the thirtieth anniversary of that trip? The diary begins on January 8th 1982 – or January VIII, as I’ve used Roman numerals throughout – so from Sunday, for the next few months, there will be a daily post of that day’s diary entry, with some further memories of mine added to it.
None of this means that you’ll be missing out on the other stories of my life and general hopelessness. These will still appear as often as time allows me, especially as there are some days when the diary offers very little – including the manifestly-untrue ‘nothing happened today’ – and the last thing I want is for the site to be entirely devoted to that passage of my life.
The memories might be a bit 1982-centric, though. For example, one of the big songs of the time was ‘Golden Brown‘ by The Stranglers. I walked around singing it for days before we left the country, completely unaware of the fact that to everyone else I was a fourteen-year-old who was extolling the virtues of heroin.