I kept diaries throughout my teenage years, locked them in a camphor-wood box, then promptly mislaid the key. Cleaning out my wardrobe the other day, I found the key, but thought no more of it. This morning, however, curiosity got the better of me, and opened it. The box is full of strange remnants - a dessicated daisy-chain, two cigars, notes passed in class, and of course, my six hand-written journals.
Years thirteen through sixteen were quite a yawn; I wrote infrequently, and only when I was angry, so the writing is a storm of swearing, maudlin self-pity, and dreadful poetry.
A third-form school trip went unappreciated;
Hayden was great from up above (Row 1), Ravel a piano trio in fatuous flatulence, and Schumann made my eyes go heavy and wobbly at the edges, and then, thank God, it was 5.05 but what bloody happens but they get an encore so on comes Bloody Beethoven Bloody piano trio Bloody Opus 11. SHIT.
The inevitable teenage angst, where, amusingly, I compare myself to a monkey;
I rearrange my bedroom incessantly. Not from any real need, of course, just to ward off the boredom. Reminds me of a zoo I saw in Crete, once. A bored, deranged monkey in a too-small cage, cleaning its tail with such ferocity the fur falls off and the creature starts knawing its own flesh.
At nineteen I left home, and continued writing for a few months. This was my last entry, which, for some reason, I think quite perfect;
London moves so fast, there is no time for thinking. Who cares, as long as you look good when you get there! You learn to yawn with your mouth closed. Tried coke. So what. It made my nose run. I can get that free with hay-fever, thanx very much.
I'll spare you the poetry.