Dear diary...

Do you remember when you first began to write? I do.

As a child I’d always made things up in my head, especially when lying in bed at night. My mind, inspired by things I’d seen on TV or read, or even events at school, would churn around and form stories out of thin air.

I still live in the same terraced house, which is divided from my neighbour’s by a covered passage, or entry, running front to back, allowing access to the rear of the premises. I’d spend hours sitting in there, with my doll’s pram and my dolls, telling them stories I’d made up.

When I reached age fourteen, someone gave me an old, green leather bound diary with blank pages. From that moment on I began to write my thoughts and ideas down. Anything and everything went into that shabby tome and I remember filling it from cover to cover.

Alas, the diary is long gone, but not so the ideas. I still buy a largish diary every year and guess what? It doesn’t just contain appointments for the dentist and the doctor, but is also a treasure house filled with the rough diamonds of my thoughts.

Just for you, Lucas.

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