As a teenage girl-thing, I was known to scribble prose.
Rhyming, or not, ridiculous, and too schoolgirl-ish to show.
I had a large pink fluffy notebook and a chewed-up fluffy pencil.
A myriad of jumbled thoughts that were very possibly mental.
I can see one of the entries now, in my mind’s eidetic.
entered on a Winter’s eve spent hogging the radiator.
‘Eaten: 1 apple, chocolate yoghurt, and some soup.
Followed Lovegod Andy home all the way from school!
He’s still got that awful girlfriend, what does he see in her?
She wears clogs. She’s a boring snob, and she has frizzy hair!’
Night after night I duly scribbled in this way.
Boys, friends, school, my family; they all got in their say.
Another dark entry which is lodged in memory;
the obligatory ‘I hate Mum!‘ for her evil refusal,
to allow me out toTown, without her strict perusal.
Oh fourteen is such a painful, awkward, cringing age,
and I held my breath through fifteen as a transitory stage.
By sixteen and seventeen the Telephone,
held my rapt attention with fresh life of it’s own.
And I caressed it to my ear on a mahogany throne.
The redundant pink notebook was cruelly discarded
for flop-haired boys, Television, and spin-the-bottle parties.
Never to be opened,
never to be read.
Stuffed in box room cupboards,
discarded and alone.
How I wish I’d kept on writing from my teens until middle-aged,
The shocking tales I’d have recorded, the memories unfolded.
But now I am that older Me, a mummy and a wife,
I bought a new shiny notebook, in pelican and white.
I vow to treasure it forever, and starting from tonight,
But I’ll have to wear my glasses, because of my bad sight.