One of the scariest things I’ve ever done is read my diary out loud to a room full of strangers. Perhaps that says more about the kind of soft-handed life I’ve led than it does about the source material, but regardless – I’ve rarely known terror like it.
A friend of mine had organised a charity fundraising event, selling tickets to hear people ritually humiliate themselves by reading out excerpts from the journals of their youth. I gamely agreed to participate as a performer before I cracked open the musings of my teenage years and early twenties for the first time in a decade. By the time I’d actually looked at them, it was too late to change my mind. I couldn’t renege now – it was for charity – but oh, how I wanted to.
