The parcel was suspiciously small and definitely didn’t contain the longed-for pink Raleigh bicycle. Or even a cassette recorder. When I ripped open my mum’s elaborate gift-wrap, out fell a red leatherette volume with the words Five Year Diary etched into the cover in gold.
I remember feeling a surge of excitement. The lavish heft of the diary’s design implied that only very important life events would be worthy of its gilt-edged pages. The brass lock and key held the promise of future secrets. Not that I had any.
