Journal - Dear Kitty

I was gifted a five year diary when I was about fourteen. Someone, an adult, made unkind remarks about me and diary keeping. I was a sensitive soul and the book remained untouched in a drawer for a year.

I started to write a diary, or journal when I was fifteen. From age seventeen, I missed a lot of years when recording my life on paper wasn’t a priority. I wish it had been, then I could look back on events, see the person I was and compare myself with who I am now. Life is what makes us who we are. Life throws things at us and how we deal with those ups and downs shapes us. Ideally, we learn from life’s experiences, good and bad, and avoid repeating mistakes. No need to beat ourselves up if we don’t get it right. It’s a shame I don’t have the missing bits written down, but there was a time when keeping a diary got me into a spot of bother and another time when it caused me great embarrassment, so perhaps it is a good thing. Why, then, I wonder, do I bother to write a journal now, most days? I see it as therapeutic rather than self-indulgent and hopefully it’s a therapy that does me good and creates memories to read back on. For me, that is. I can’t imagine anyone else being interested.

When Anne Frank began writing to Kitty, she had no idea of the impact those two years of her recorded life would eventually have on the rest of the world. She received a diary for her 13th birthday in June, 1942. A month later, she and her family were in hiding. Her ‘Dear Kitty’ diary entries tell of her hopes and dreams and her adolescent awareness as she developed an attraction for Peter van Pels, who shared the hiding place with his family. She wrote of personal relationships with her family and Peter’s family, her fear of discovery and worries about the disappearance of Jews. Anne died in Belsen concentration camp in 1944. She was fifteen years old. Her diary, discovered by her father, was first published in the UK in 1952, as ‘Anne Frank: The Diary of a Young Girl’. I have laughed and cried my way through that book. It is more than special.

There are many novels written in the epistolary form. I’ll mention a few favourites. ‘The Tenant of Wildfell Hall’ by Anne Bronte is framed round letters from the character Gilbert Markham to his friend about events connected with his meeting with the character Helen Graham, the tenant. ‘The Secret Diary of Adrian Mole Aged 13 and Three Quarters’, by Sue Townsend, is written as a diary. ‘Dracula’ by Bram Stoker, based on letters and newspaper articles is a Gothic horror story which has done a lot for Whitby tourism.

My Haiku,

Secrets coded in
Fountain pen and turquoise ink,
When I was fifteen.

In difficult times,
Between neatly written lines
Are tears of despair.

Cutting my own path,
Italics with flourishes
Speak of confidence.

Scribbled in biro,
Telling of the days events
With love and laughter.

“Look how far you’ve come!”
I remind myself to take
The best from each day.

PMW 2025

Thanks for reading, Pam x

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Unlocking the Secrets

There’s something about a key. It teases us. It’s powerful and it seems to know how much we need it. It unlocks some answers. And keeps others hidden. 

When my grandad died at 93 he left behind a house filled with all sorts of ‘useful’ items. Born in the late 1800s he was a product of both world wars and the ‘make do and mend’ generation. Nothing was thrown away that just might come in useful. Old screws and nails; odd pieces of wood that might have been fashioned into a doorstop or filled a hole in the wall; pieces of paper with random writings; hammer heads and their broken handles; the list went on. I remember my dad and his siblings, going through drawers and cupboards and despairing of the rubbish that had been kept ‘just in case.’  

One day my dad came home with a small wooden box. He shook it and it gave a satisfying rattling sound. We wondered if it could be something of value. Jewellery, watches, old coins? Dad obviously knew what was in it. We realised it wasn’t going to be valuable by the way he was shaking his head and rolling his eyes. Slowly, he opened the lid and held out the box with a flourish. We all peered in. He turned the box over and the contents spilled out onto the table.  We stared at about fifty keys, of various shapes and sizes.  

‘I mean -,’ said my dad, still shaking his head, ‘what good are these?? They’re not labelled, there’s no clue what they’ll fit. Ridiculous.’ 

I liked the keys. I picked one up and turned it in my hand. It was small with a fancy top. I wondered what secrets of my granddad’s it had kept locked away all those years. I thought the keys were beautiful and would love to have kept them, but dad was so adamant they were a waste of space that I knew it would be pointless to ask. 

Just over a year ago my dad died, aged 92.  Going through his desk I found a small drawer that rattled. I don’t know if they were the same keys or ones that he’d collected himself but I rejoiced at the irony, the continuity, the way life goes on. And the way life goes round in circles. 

The other day, going through some old papers of my own I found a diary from when I was about eight. I can’t be precise as it’s locked, with no date on it. It’s locked, and there’s no key. I can see that key now. I can feel it’s lightness in my hand. I was aware, even at that age, that it was cheap and flimsy and could bend if twisted too far. That diary holds my sixty year old secrets. Should I try and find a key?  I pull out the secret drawer in my desk, and poke my finger in. There’s no tiny key hidden at the bottom but there are plenty of others, all with their own secrets. 

No Key to That Time by Jill Reidy

I’m eight

My life revolves around school

And friends 

Mum and dad

What’s for tea

And arguments with my brothers

Of parties

And dresses with netting

The dread of school dinners

Handstands at playtime

Perfecting French knitting

Susie, my baby whose eyes never close

Playing out on the streets 

with Iris and Edward

Penny lollies and dancing

These are my ramblings 

An eight year old's secrets

They’re locked in my diary

They’re locked in my diary

With no key to that time 

Thanks for reading........ Jill

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