Last month I published extracts from my teenage diaries. I may well continue from time to time. I did it because Karen started it. Mainly because I could. I don't think I was trying to prove anything. Certainly not to you.
At one stage, maybe in my mid twenties, I had a belief that one's character was an aggregation of random events occurring in childhood. Mainly early childhood. Then I took the reverse view that only very significant events, especially traumatic, really influence the adult who is blessed with free will and an analytical intelligence.
But is the girl the mother of the woman?
My parents often used to dismiss my enthusiasms as 'a phase you're going through'. Maybe they were right about the ponies. Partly right about the ballet (but it was thinking about this that prompted me to identify a potential ballet-attending companion). They didn't have the money for dancing or riding lessons. Dispassionate reporting of facts. No bitterness or resentment.
After about ten years they realised that Manchester United was more than a phase. They definitely encouraged the music, classical music, anyway. Pop was more or less tolerated, it has to be in a household whose children's ages span ten years.
Over the years there have been many enthusiasms. Some go back a long way. Boats have always held a fascination. All the way back to multiple re-readings of the entire Swallows and Amazons series. Not that I've ever really gone boating. My obsessions are shallow. Photography goes back to Colwyn Bay holiday where I instructed my father which photos to take. Matt was a babe in arms. I must have been 7. Or maybe the previous year when I took an ace photo of a sailing dinghy off Aberystwyth.
Sometimes the enthusiasms are beached. As a small child, I read voraciously. I think I have read one book this year. I love cooking, but when do I actually properly cook? When did I last knit? Writing is a constant obsession. I write because I have to.
Reading my 1983 diaries, I went to three concerts in a week. I found myself envying 15-year-old Gert. How ridiculous, I scolded myself. You have disposable income, a Switch card, and an internet connection. Oh, and you live in London, a World City, teeming with culture.
I get obsessions with celebrities. They were embarrassingly obsessive until the age of...oh, I don't know, 31...
Right now, you may have noticed, I'm obsessing about Plácido. I'm sure it will pass. And return. I first fell for his gorgeous voice and charisma back in, I don't know, 79, 80, 81? My liking for Plácido is something that's understood in our family. I am annoyed with myself. All those missed opportunities over the years. Yes, on TV, but also, Covent Garden. Royal Festival Hall. My manor, for God's sake.
In the interim, of course, I was a flibbertigibbet, obsessing on other things. I gave the best years of my life to Lambeth Council. Do I regret it? Maybe I regret the time I could have spent doing else. (Probably in reality just getting drunk, watching mediocre TV and yearning to be a politician). Look through this weblog - or take my word for it, I flit, I float, I fly. Still, I have the rest of my life to flutter between my obsessions.
I wrote the above at lunchtime, on my Palm, on a Park bench (yes, in November...I'm loving it loving it loving it...)
Strictly speaking I should be in the ranks of the highly elevated, a Senior Civil Servant, or a Local Authority Chief Officer, or the equivalent. I'm bright, quick thinking, capable of processing ideas, numerate, empathetic and have reasonably good people skills. I can think strategically and outside the box, and see the Big Picture.
These are all highly valued skills. But eventually people clock onto me - I lack drive, commitment, tenacity, the ability to concentrate, motivation. Besides, name for me one Senior Civil Servant or Local Authority Chief Officer who blogs. I rest my case.
I'm a flibbertijibbet and a will-o'-the wisp, and, to be honest, a little bit of a clown.
Maybe if you understand, you can forgive.
