This whole moving away biz has dredged up a lot of old memories - through the very mundane method of unearthing some old diaries. I spent some hours the other night flipping through 15 years of angsty crap. And then burning them. Which wasn't as cathartic as advertised really but extinguished the chance that my mother (bless her nosey soul) might come across them and have all her suspicions about me proved true...
The worst thing, other than reading some excreble poetry from my late teens (shudder), was reading about Rupert all the time (for those who never met him Rupert was my oldest and best friend, we met in 6th form (year 12 these days? Don't know. Second to last year of high school) and he died two years ago last October). Not that I don't like to remember him but it was annoying to read about all these things we did and not to be able to remember the event. I guess that goes with aging though.
One, rather excitable entry from 1988 was about us & the 'posse' (snigger, we were sooooo not a coherent group. All far too different) going to a 'punk' party in town (I was a pseudo-punk at the time I think) and drinking far too much, dancing wildly and running away when the police arrived. Actually, probably the reason I don't remember that episode is because of the regurgitations that were involve, I wrote about them in hideous detail...
More on this later (probably), I have wrinklies to entertain. This is the problem of not having my own house or using my own 'puter, lack of privacy/time...
Edit: The other problem is that my folks' (very nice) Macs only seem to run blogger in a format I'm not used to, hence not actually posting what I thought I had. One day I'll grow a brain...
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