I have a fear of clutter. I throw stuff out at an alarming rate. I especially hate the idea of the space above
our heads being full of rubbish, so things have to pass my inspection before
they are allowed to be stored in the attic.
However there are two large bags up there which I insist on
keeping. I rarely investigate these bags
but I like to know they are there.
These bags contain a part of my soul. They contain my old diaries. No, not the kind of private journals into
which you pour your heart and innermost darkest secrets. No, these are work diaries. And they go right back to the early 1980s.
My first career was in the travel business and my oldest diaries
date from my days working for JWT.
Although holding no deep secrets, they do provide plenty of clues to
what was going on in my life then.
Because along with work related appointments and reminders, my social
life is also recorded therein. Pages
that end with a scribble that says ‘Toners’ (pub in Baggot Street in which I
spent quite a proportion of my meagre salary in those heady days), or Fridays
that often say “the Pink” referring to the
place to hang out back then.
Music gigs were also an important feature with weekends
littered with band names like ‘Stepaside’ and ‘The Lookalikes’. Just looking at these notes, which give away
no secrets, I can remember many things that will remain forever secret, well as
long as I don’t ever fall out with my oldest friends.
But it’s not just the pages of the diary that hold clues to
my previous lives. My diaries have
always been used as storage folders for important bits and pieces of
information – everything from other people’s business cards to notes and
letters. My JWT diaries hold copies of
memos requesting holidays. There are
long rolls of telex communications that were vital for some reason or
other. Ask your ma or da what a telex
is. These diaries are a window into the
world of work in the largely pre computer era.
At the back of the diaries are lists of vital phone numbers
– although in those days I could recite most of them off by heart. I don’t even know my children’s phone numbers
now – something that does worry me.
And there are postcards from various far flung destinations. In the days before Facebook when we went on
holidays we sent postcards back to let friends and family know that we were
having a wonderful time. They’ve lasted
way longer than last month’s Facebook posts.
Currently in my work desk I have a drawer that is full of my
most recent diaries... the writing and broadcasting ones. One of the great joys of self employment is
getting to pick one’s own diary.
About five years ago, when I first decided to leave the cosy
and safe confines of my kitchen table in deepest suburbia in order to market my
opinions in the media I came across a diary called ‘A Fearless Woman’. Knowing that this was what I was going to
have to become, I bought it. It was
pretty and colourful and each month began with a page emblazoned with an
affirmation.
I have bought a Fearless Woman Date Book even since. Let me share what January 2014 said; “From
the deep well of her spirit, her brave voice awakens to rise and to roar. Empowered to say what she knows to be true,
she speaks up and doesn’t hold back”. Great
motivational stuff that I cling to on days when I wonder what kind of an eejit
I am to think anyone is going to commission me to write anything at all.
So for the last five years my desk has been graced by my
gorgeous Fearless Woman Diary. Then in
the haze Christmas shopping madness, I made a rash decision. My head was turned by a pretty little pocket
diary covered in glitter. “Sure wouldn’t
that be grand” I thought to myself; a nice sparkly diary that I could have in
my bag. Big mistake. Huge.
Two weeks into January I was lost and I’m still completely
bereft. My glittery diary is too
small. I can never find it. It won’t fit precious photos or slips of paper
I may need. I hate it.
But worst of all, it’s now too late to find a Fearless Woman
diary in the shops.
The moral of this tale is that all that glitters (yes, I
know he wrote ‘glisters’) is indeed not gold.
Also - you are not what you eat – you are your diary. And how am I to
continue to be a Fearless Woman in 2015 when I only have a stupid glittery yoke
to work with?
