Notes from my eight year old self

I was eight years old when I wrote my ‘World Wildlife’ diary. It was the year 2000 and I hadn’t yet discovered the afro comb. My hair was triangular, at times almost at right-angles with my chin and with a butterfly clip in each side. Teenage angst had not yet arrived, but my childhood imagination was rife, and, in the spirit of creativity, I’d meticulously captioned each and every one of the weekly animal photographs in the diary with all the wit and rigour of an occasionally amusing cartoon artist fallen on hard times.

Before we go any further, I should add that I’ve kept a diary from a very young age. Form, technique and indeed design have all varied from year to year. I’ve had Harry Potter, Forever Friends, a partially-completed five year ring-binder with a key I kept in my ‘loose buttons’ drawer...but World Wildlife trumps them all. It’s a veritable treasure trove of emotion, full of drama, intrigue and romance. Oh, and teachers. A whole lot of teachers.

Allow me to take you back to January 2000, where the rollercoaster begins. It’s the first day back at school, an exciting yet daunting prospect for any little girl; the next thrilling step of her academic journey. I think I captured it perfectly:

January 5^th

Today was boring. I went back to school. The only interesting thing that happened was a music man came to school and I got my owl which is 10 merits.

January 6^th

Today I had an even worse day than yesterday. It was usual Maths and English and to top it all off Miss Roots was ill. I had to have Miss Whale instead. It’s funny how I keep having fishes for teachers!

January 18^th

Today was the worst day of my life. I had lots of arguments and I have to wear a skirt tomorrow.

Can I just pause at this juncture to emphasise that I was, in all respects, a girl’s girl. I had no brothers, many Barbies and a trunk of dressing up clothes. But A SKIRT? Surely not?! How could my mother be so cruel?

Beside my hatred of skirts (and tights incidentally, but that’s another story), another theme that crops up rather frequently is the ongoing saga of my love life. For an eight year old, it was surprisingly tumultuous.

February 14^th

I decided to send a Valentine’s Card to Thomas Grindley. He forgot to give me one though!! I’m sure it was an accident.

At least I stayed positive in the face of rejection.

April 7^th

Today was the school disco. There were lots of songs I knew and it was fun. My boyfriend Thomas bought me a drink and I did the same. It was a cool night!

Let’s be under no illusions here. No, my primary school did not serve Jaeger bombs to minors. ‘Buying drinks’ undoubtedly meant powdered squash and sickly sweet cherryade that stains the upturned corners of your mouth, giving the impression of a manic clown. Still, at least there was no need for lipstick.

From there, the relationship progressed even further. But I was still always one to have a firm grip of reality.

December 15^th

Today was the school disco. Thomas and I danced to Titanic ‘Live Far’. It was VERY romantic. I found out I am level 5 for spelling- COOL!

I believe the exact lyrics I was looking for at the time were ‘Near, Far’. Still, I’ve spelt each word impeccably. I deserve a sticker.

And the episodic dramas did not stop with playground romance. Oh, no. Just you wait until you hear about the trauma of the hair braid. To give this anecdote a bit of much-needed context; I’d been on holiday to Majorca, I’d had a hair braid put in and I was in love with it. Now do sit back, relax and enjoy what should probably be televised as a three-part Channel 4 documentary.

September 6^th

Today I went to school. Mrs Thornewell my new teacher told me to cut my braid out. I did not want to. Mummy will clip my hair over it.

September 7^th

Today I went to Brownies. I actually had quite a good time*. Mrs Thornewell spotted my braid but I’ve come up with an excuse. I won’t tell you in case she reads it.

September 8^th

Today I had a nice day. Mrs Thornewell did not see my braid. I did good work and it’s Friday so I can unclip my braid now.

* Note the hint of surprise here. But when I tell you that our Brownie group consisted of constant separation from my best friend, Natasha (so we were mildly talkative, big deal...I’m not bitter at all), weekly inspections to make sure we weren’t biting our nails and a rainy camp when we were divided into Cooking, Hoovering and Toilet Cleaning Group, I’m sure you’ll begin to sympathise. No wonder I didn’t like Guides.

Thus, The Tale Of The Braid reaches its happy and triumphant conclusion. The moral of the story: it’s the little rebellions that make all the difference. Either that or Mrs Thornewell was too busy dealing with Luke Sales’ attempt to karate chop a table in half to reprimand my choice of hair accessory.

Despite the odd isolated incident, I was, on the whole, a natural teacher’s pet. But where I became a bit more scathing was the subject of my classmates:

November 13^th

Today I had a rehearsal of the dance I’m in for assembly. It’s the Snow Dance. Natasha is the Snow Queen. I am a person who throws confetti.

Is it me, or is there an undertone of jealousy here? In fact, it reminds me of the time I was a flower not Red Riding Hood, or the Inkeeper’s Wife- a fictitious role in a Nativity invented specifically for a class of 30 children.

But Natasha was, as my diary frequently proclaimed, my Best Friend Forever (if you’re reading this, Tasha, LUV YAZ), so of course I was willing to forgive her when the teachers chose to ignore my clear thespian prowess. After all, I was Violet Beauregard in Charlie And The Chocolate Factory (I told Mrs Thornewell that I could ‘talk common’ for the role if necessary) and formidable housekeeper Mrs Danvers in our year 6 production of The Rocky Monster Show (believe me, no-one else could scream ‘Rebecca’ with quite as much panache...) so I too had my fair share of the limelight.

Of my other classmates however, it’s fair to say I took no prisoners when it came to criticism:

November 9^th

Today I went to Simone’s party. All I can say is that it was a complete and utter waste of time and I don’t know why I bothered going there. Sophie Woodman even cried!

Poor Simone. She was a very nice girl who’d presumably had a normal child’s birthday bash; jelly, ice cream and musical bumps. Not that I remember anything about it, of course. It was clearly far too dull to recall. But if Sophie cried, then it must have been bad. That girl was tough to the extreme.

Speaking of birthdays, another frequent source of excitement was presents. Christmas, birthday, surprises...they were all listed with huge and precise attention to detail, to the point where they often took up an entire six line entry:

November 25^th

Today I went to the East Malling Fete. I went early with Daddy to set it up and Althea had a ballet exam. I met a girl called Alice and we played together. I got a file-a-fax, some goo, two soft toy ducks, a purse and a yo-yo. I got Althea a soft toy Dumbo. Then I won some sweets and a tin of salmon.

All in all, this sounds like a pretty average Saturday shopping trip. But it’s the tin of salmon that makes it.

A particularly striking example of presents received relates to my dad’s return from his Middle Eastern business travels. Trust me when I say, it’s a real gem.

April 14^th

Daddy came back from Saudi Arabia today, bringing me a silver bracelet and Mummy some earrings. He also brought an alarm clock that does the Arabian* call to prayer.

* I probably meant ‘Muslim’. Other than that, this is, unbelievably, an entirely true account. Said alarm clock resembled a garish green mosque, flecked with ‘gold’ that began to chip off after several uses as an exotic holiday home for my menagerie of animal figurines. Well, the Sylvanian Families got bored of their barge sometimes, okay?

As the year 2000 drew to a close, I’d recounted highs, lows and voiced the thoughts of more animal pictures than David Attenborough. But as my parting gesture, I think I’ll leave you with this. The visual image it conjures up is truly spectacular.

September 24^th

Today I went to church. There was a new vicar and he ate breakfast at our house. It was weird. Then it was the Harvest Festival lunch. I ate too much and felt sick but I wasn’t.