Why does it seem that as you get older, the time goes quicker? Well, in some respects. I found myself thinking yeterday “December 1st already? I must get all the Christmas decorations out today.” Then the next minute I find myself saying “When was it we went to see U2:3D on Imax in Birmingham? It feels likes AGES ago? March? Seriously?! It feels farther back than that!!”I’ve been finding myself thinking about how I used to keep my diary and wish it translated onto my blog a bit more than it does. I think I had more to write about at thirteen than I do now. Which is worrying! I wish I could write more about things. I used to keep a thing going on a site called Ourstory. You’d be asked a whole set of questions about your life that you had to answer. I worked on it for ages. It became a bit cumbersome in the end and I haven’t done anything with it in over a year. I loved the piece I wrote about losing my virginity and my sexual awakening. It didn’t quite read as I wanted it to in the end, but I loved putting it “out there” as it were. I really love writing and wish I was far better at it than I am. I love reading books and always have from a young age. I admire anyone who can write a book. Everyone is supposedly meant to have a book in them. I wish I felt I had one. I dare say mine would be more – whatever is thought to be universally a crap book – less To Kill A Mocking Bird. That was Harper Lee’s only book – and what a book to have in you! I suppose keeping a diary/journal/blog has been my way of writing a book all these years. There have been LONG gaps in between. My initial reasoning for keeping a diary was nothing to do with self-promotion or any sense of ego. It was prompted by me reading Anne Frank’s diary at thirteen and feeling as though the diary, for her, was a way of combating loneliness. Which is why I started mine. I even used a similar ploy to Anne Frank and referred to my diary in the second person and gave it a name, Pet, much in the way Anne Frank wrote to “Kitty” and referred to all of us readers in the second person. It was like letter-writing and gave me the sense that I was writing to a friend. One that I obviously didn’t have in real life at the time. But one I desperately wanted.