The Glory Box - Debbie Bennett
And I have diaries. Seven or eight year’s worth, starting from just before I was thirteen years old and about to venture out to our local youth club. It’s all in there – the boys I liked, the moments of such exquisite embarrassment that it makes my toes curl even now to think about them, the awkward lonely evenings of being fourteen and fifteen when your friends all have boyfriends and you don’t. Pages of how I felt when my friends were all at a party that I hadn’t been invited to (I went to a different school, and I think – hope – they just forgot I wasn’t there when they were making plans…). Seventeen had nothing on me, with the stuff I used to write down!
In case you're wondering - that last photo isn't me. I have no idea who it is. It came from a Sunday newspaper supplement many years back, cut out by a boyfriend and given to me because it reminded him of me! Somehow it resonated and I kept it, though I've never been quite sure why ...
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