29th December, 1979
In an unprecedented move, I have this year (this morning, actually) decided to make a New Year Resolution. Yep, just the one. That’s quite enough for one person (this person) to be getting on with I think. And, even more actually–literally actually–if I don’t do this now then there isn’t another chance of doing it for… well, another few years at any rate.
So, my NYR?
See the heading above? Two Score Years. A ‘score’ in terms of mathematics equals twenty. Yes, I know you knew that, I was slightly less sure so Googled it first and thankfully this is indeed the case. Twenty years.
The pattern and sense it makes (to me) is unequalled. Not only that, it speaks to me, draws me nearer and asks for an embrace the likes of which I never anticipated ever receiving.
Two twenties written down not only LOOKS like 2020 (which is what next year will call itself) but two twenties added together equals forty (bear with me, I know it’s quite painful) and forty years ago I was seventeen (sweet seventeen and only just been kissed – that year as a matter of fact, which was 1979. But FORTY YEARS AGO from the 1st January 2020 was the 1st January 1980 and THIS, dear reader (if you’re still reading) is the ride we’re taking for the next 365 days.
I know. No, YOU’RE welcome.
That image above is a scan of the actual 1979 diary I was writing back in the day. My diary was the only real ‘thing’ I ever discussed things with and blurted out deep dark stuff I didn’t feel I was able to in real life (these days called IRL) and so I’ll be blanking out names to protect the innocent.
It seems that (from the page before–yesterday, which was 28th December 1979–) that I was due to start working on the Record Dept (I had a Saturday/Holiday job at Boots the Chemist in our local town) this very day, and so you get a taste for how 17-year old Me was slightly over-dramatic; I already hate this job it with such passion that it leaps at your throat from the page. I blame it on a ‘Dallas’ and ‘Knots Landing’ overload coupled (thirdled?) with furtive readings of my Nan’s Mills ‘n’ Boon books when she forgot to take them with her to the loo (she had many, many tight-fitting undergarments to pull down and pull up again which gave me plenty of time to educate myself in the ways of the world).
I can’t promise Adrian Mole, but I’m excited at the idea of hanging my teenage innards out to dry on this metaphorical washing line.
Debs J Cooper 