(Gosforth, age 14)
Five-Year Diary: I woke up late.
Mum brings me tea. The day unfolds without urgency.
German: I type it up as if that will help me remember it.
Grandpa came over. He’s so busy with tasks that his presence encourages people to get things done. I clean out the rabbit – our Dutch hare that lives in the old dog kennel.
I ring Julie-Anne. Plans shift. Lunch. Another call. Arrangements.
Out on the bike—nine miles. Not quite to Wallington.
Back home: records – Genesis, Bowie, Abba.
I spend time with the rabbits and hamsters. They are easy. They respond. They depend on you. If you don’t have people, they fill something.
But it isn’t enough.
What I want is Julie-Anne.
Not just a company—a kind of shared mind. Someone to talk to properly. To be alongside.
When she’s dropped off after supper, there’s relief. Now there’s someone here. Even if we do nothing much—cleaning, moving about—it’s shared.
Later, we went to Rick’s. We collect my sister and her friend Louise. Move between houses. Messages passed through parents.
The day closes.
50 Years On — Reflection
Being at home—with pets, with television, with tasks—was a kind of soft invisibility. Not as dramatic as being in the hospital the year before, but more insidious.
And yet—this is where something important begins: I start to understand that connection must be built, not assumed. Julie-Anne represents the first conscious attempt not just to be with someone, but to be known by them.
At the same time, something else is forming—quietly:
When alone, I begin to create: Drawing. Music. Writing.
Like a self-portrait, I could begin to see myself, even if no one else did. And I drew several self-portraits over the years that followed.
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