Back in 1982 I started keeping a journal.
I call it a journal because only girls and Samuel Pepys write diaries.
I stopped last year, or the year before. I’m not sure which, and I’d have to consult my journal to find out when. Leastwise they are now taking up an entire shelf in a bookcase. If nothing else, they are an impressive sight.
I stopped writing the journals for the simple reason that it was getting tedious. Having retired, my days lacked the cut and thrust excitement of fights with the boss and skiving off work. My days had become quieter, more serene and generally fucking boring to anyone reading my output. It was reaching the stage where each day I would in effect just write “ditto”.
The main reason I started writing it was to keep track of my job. At the time I was doing a lot of travelling and I found it handy to have a record so that I could fiddle my expenses. It was also quite handy for remembering birthdays and crap like that.
The thought had crossed my mind that whenever I run short of ideas for scribbling here, that I should consult the journal and write about what I was doing twenty years ago or whenever. I then realised that it would be somewhat confusing for my reader if I suddenly started referring to the journey into work or yet another fight with management. You know I’m retired, so what the fuck would I be doing having a slanging match with my boss?
If anyone is interested, This day twenty years ago I painted the porch fascia and then had a barbecue. Now that I think of it, maybe the fascia is dry enough for a second coat by now? See how journals are handy for reminding me of things?
As you may have gathered, I have just been skimming back over a few years. I had forgotten what a fucking miserable life I had. I am almost depressed now having read about all those fucking traffic jams every day, the tedious monotony of work and being fit for nothing except watching boring television on the evenings. While I was doing it all, it seemed normal, but looking at it in retrospect it’s a wonder I survived at all.
I’m not sure what to do with the journals now. After all, they are a boring record of the best part of thirty years and took quite a long time to write [I estimate the best part of thirty years]. It would be a shame to dump them. Historians in the future would be fascinated at the insight into a humdrum life at the end of the twentieth century.
I think I will publish them posthumously?