I'm officially declaring war on Debbie's garden party
They said writing a diary was ridiculous.
But I’ve been doing it—on and off—since I was 14, and eventually it led to something people pay me for. When "they" say things, I now tend to do the opposite. But the only way to write the darn diary is to get the book out and start. The starting is the hard bit. My life is no less interesting than Judy’s, down at number 42. As my life has taught me in abundance, what I lack in ferocious quantities is understanding.
I only know that because I got myself into such a mess.
A bit like Debbie's garden party.
Catastrophe aside, today was the day I officially decided to stop thinking about writing and begin—whatever came out. I’m a modern-day, midlife, Regency-past life Maiden. Although, like most women who have a live fantasy version of themselves in some alternate dimension, I can’t quite decide whether I was a servant girl or lady of the manor.
Neither of those would watch TV. So I'm officially out of the television hole. Seven years clean and counting.
Books and writing—officially in.
However, I had to ask myself why it was so hard to begin a diary when I've mastered the art of writing down my life's unintended accidents and sharing them with the world. First of all, I was busy contemplating what I should say instead of actually writing my thoughts—because who imposed the should?
My reserved Britishness has been hampered by a wild attack of oversharing by my inner child, in a quest for acceptance. Huge fail, by the way. So it was me imposing the should. And then me, unsubscribing to it. Writing must be honest, or what's the point—or as honest as you can get when telling stories.
My latest shock is giving up social media. Before you judge me, it’s not bravery or willpower on my end. I’ve noticed pain in my head when I'm around the TV or radio, now social media. I am lulled into a drab grey world, where I drift and can’t feel who I am. Like sleep paralysis, but awake and tapping the phone for more. I'm in there somewhere—but actually I'm gone. Ten-second intervals of hopecore that now make me feel even more hopeless about my life.
It’s almost like my neighbour Debbie's garden party—I'd rather be pressing bed sheets on a tabletop ironing board. You stay a few hours, granting Debbie permission to "educate" you about Clematis, long enough to confirm I'm not an uncaring neighbour, while praying the other neighbours won't trash me as my coat tails flap through Debbie's pergola, only to bang my head against the bedroom wall because those three hours are never coming back.
Thanks, Debbie.
Addiction on hold, let’s say. Like my penchant for cake. Because if I go full social media prude, I may slip back like a man with a secret porn habit. Cake, like porn, is a dastardly trap. So social media goes on the maybe later list—same approach young Catholics take to sex before marriage. We all know how that ends.
And here we are.
The diary of one woman—and the calamities of starting over more times than I’ve laundered my drawers—has arrived, uninvited, like Debbie.