Sunday, 28 December 1975
I regret that I haven’t written in my Diary since I broke my leg (25 March). I will try to work backwards and fill in the memorable days (I didn’t).
Typed story in bed from 8:45 am to 11:45 am and copied it out after Mum had checked it. D rings up – no girl but invite. (Our party guidelines were that you had to bring a girl. Now eleven definite boys and six definite girls!!! Watch Tara’s Bulbs, film pics of ’75, parts of something, unlike with Julie Andrews.
Expanded:
Sunday, 28 December 1975
I am fourteen now, and I can feel time pressing in a way I didn’t before. It bothers me that I haven’t written since March, since the day I broke my leg. I told myself I would work backwards and fill in what I missed, but I know I won’t. Too much has already slipped past without being caught. What I really mean is that I don’t want to lose things like that again.
This morning I wrote in bed from 8:45 until nearly midday. Three solid hours. It felt good to be back at it, even if it’s cautious writing. Mum checked what I’d typed, and I copied it out neatly afterwards. That makes it sound tame, but the important thing is that I’ve started again. Writing feels like a way of putting a line down, a mark that says: this day happened, and I was here to notice it.
The other thing that matters today is the party. D rang — no girl, but still invited. The rule is you have to bring a girl, but rules bend when you’re trying to make something work. I’ve been counting numbers: eleven definite boys, six definite girls so far. I’m organising the boys; Mum, through her friends, is sorting out the girls. It’s slightly embarrassing to admit, but also a relief. I want the girls there, but I’m not yet in a position to make that happen on my own.
I know exactly why this matters. I’ve been to those parties before, the ones arranged by “the mums,” where they sit in one room with sherry or tea and leave us to our games. Murder in the Dark. Sardines. Sardines are the best ones. Being found by a girl and then staying hidden, pressed into a wardrobe or under a bed while others pile in — nothing happens, of course, but something does happen. You feel it in your body before you have words for it. I’ve learned that closeness can arrive sideways, disguised as a game.
I think about S sometimes — more than sometimes. She was my first girl pen pal, and in games, and even on my own with dice, I’ve caught myself making bargains with the world. Saying, “when I grow old I’ll marry Sally,” and then throwing, convinced it will make the double six come. When it does, it feels like proof. When it doesn’t, I tell myself I didn’t say it properly, or didn’t believe it enough. I know that’s childish, but it also feels serious. Like practice.
Later in the day, I watched bits of television — Taras Bulba, film clips from 1975, parts of Thoroughly Modern Millie. None of it held together properly. Just fragments. But that seems right. The screen fills time; it doesn’t shape it.
What I’m really trying to do now is make something continuous again. Writing every day. Planning things instead of just wishing for them. Finding a way for girls to be in the room without me having to declare anything out loud. I feel I’ve already missed things by not writing since March — moments that changed me without leaving a trace. I don’t want that to keep happening.
So today isn’t dramatic. But it’s a beginning. If I can write every day from now on, maybe nothing important will pass unnoticed. And maybe, if I plan carefully enough, something good will happen — or at least I’ll be there when it does.
Leave a Reply