I just went through a box containing all the volumes of journal I have ever filled, from the age of eleven. It also contained all my other non-work notebooks, full of lists and ramblings and doodles and more random writing, fictional, true, and somewhere in between, poetry and songs and ditties and all the rest, going back fifteen years. I don’t actually have any wish to get rid of them. So I’m not going to. You haven’t seen my room, most of you, but it’s massive. There’s certainly room for a decade and a half of useless mental tripe, and it’s quite intriguing (the tripe that is, not the room). The intensity of thought and feeling bound up in those dry, inky pages almost scares me. And there’s so many things that apparently happened to me that I don’t really remember – or if I do, I don’t remember more than snapshot images, certainly not how those moments actually felt, and that’s really weird. Reading about a person I used to know and realising how much they used to mean to me – it is simply very odd, as if I’m reading the diaries of another person entirely. But that’s definitely my writing on those pages. I think I remember the last ten or so years pretty clearly, but it’s clear that I don’t really, not at all. What about you?