Five-Year Diary: Wake once or twice, but soon go back to sleep.
Open stocking at 5:15 am. I have two books: Day of Triffids, which I had already read. Orient Express. Seen a film. My brother had packed socks, as mum was ill: Apple, I can’t eat because of my brace. Large toothbrush. Same card from Dad. Hoping I like the typewriter.
Go downstairs at six.
We take Mum all her presents, hot Lemsip, and a hot water bottle.
Gran, Grandpa, Auntie Sarah, and Auntie Mary come. Small lunch. Feast at five.
Spend all the time typing.
Presents included: Tower of London model, Freaky poster and Kaleidoscope, a squash, a racquet, and a life gamebook. A Magnifying glass. A torch. 2250 finds another freaky poster.
K> What’s quietly happening here (worth noticing later, not fixing now)
This entry does something very revealing without meaning to:
Time collapses. Night, morning, afternoon, evening—all flattened into one ribbon. That’s very typical of early-teen diary writing: chronology matters less than possession and sensation.
Illness is handled sideways. “Mum is ill” appears once, early, then returns only as props: Lemsip, hot water bottle, pretending. The boy registers it, but doesn’t linger. He’s learned not to.
The father is reduced to an object. “Same card from Dad.” No adjectives. No emotion. Just repetition. That’s psychologically loud.
The brace intrudes everywhere. Even Christmas food is filtered through orthodontics. The apple becomes a rule, not a treat.
The typewriter is the real gift. Not named as such, but unmistakable. It gets verbs (“I like”, “I spend all the time”), while people mostly arrive and depart.
If you later want to mine this for fiction, the typewriter is your Trojan horse: a boy discovering agency, voice, control—keys that respond instantly, unlike adults.
For comparison, this sits interestingly alongside teenage diary writers like Anne Frank, who also catalogued gifts and visitors with eerie calm during emotionally loaded days, and Sue Townsend, whose early notebooks show the exact deadpan itemisation before the wit learned to announce itself.
The strange thing about diaries is that they don’t lie—but they also don’t explain. Meaning leaks out sideways, through toothbrushes, apples, and the fact that at 10:50 p.m., you’re still prowling the porch for posters.
That’s where the story lives.
Here is a linear walk through Christmas Day 1975, written as a re-inhabitation, not an analysis. No prompts, no interpretation, no theory. Just the day, in order, at walking pace.
Christmas Day 1975
I wake early. I always do on Christmas Day.
I look at the clock radio and know it’s too early to get up properly, but not early enough to sleep again for long. I lie still for a while, thinking. About other Christmas mornings. About Dad not being here. About how it is now.
When I get out of bed, the house is quiet. Too quiet for Christmas.
Mum is not up. That’s wrong. On Christmas Day, she would usually already be downstairs, the turkey ready to go into the oven.
I go down carefully. The landing and stairs are familiar under my feet. Carpet on the stairs, green. Polished wood in the hall. I don’t rush. I haven’t opened anything yet.
The stockings are there. My older brother has filled mine. There’s an apple I can’t eat because of my brace. A toothbrush. A torch. Socks. Things that belong in stockings because they always have. There are books too. The Day of the Triffids—already read. Murder on the Orient Express—seen the film. I register this and move on.
There is a Christmas card from Dad. Both he and Mum signed the last I’d ever see. I scanned it and pegged it up with the others on the string across the wall.
Mum is still in bed. She is unwell. I take her things—hot Lemsip, a hot water bottle, and her presents. She opens them in bed. Christmas has already slipped slightly out of shape.
My main present is a typewriter. Second-hand. Heavy. Manual. I touch the keys. I start typing. I keep typing. It takes hold quickly. I learn where the letters are. Pages appear. This becomes the main thing.
Later in the morning, people arrive. Grandpa. Gran. Auntie Sarah. Auntie Mary. The house fills, but not completely. Mum stays in bed. The turkey had gone in the oven late.
We had a small lunch. The proper meal will be later.
I go back to the typewriter. I type most of the day. I stop only when called. Presents are opened in piles—each person’s together. A Tower of London model. A kaleidoscope. A squash racquet. A Life Gamebook. A magnifying glass. A poster. Objects accumulate around me.
By late afternoon, the house smells different. The turkey is finally ready. I’m aware that my brother and I are expected to do some of the things Dad used to do.
Afterwards, the day loosens. People talk. I drift. I type again.
The day ends with Top of the Pops.
Christmas has happened.
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