Amongst all the toys was a bundle of letters, invitations, postcards and tickets. They immediately seem both of another time, and absolutely contemporaneous. Here were the birthday parties of my childhood, the names of the houses and streets redolent of Sussex: Bluebell Cottage, Ashleigh, Leeward Road. We were invited to a lot of parties at the swimming pool. There are many Thelwell ponies on invitations. There are a few letters I sent back from my prep school, delivering small items of interest, to me at any rate ("Did you know that there was a Bantu Kingdom in Africa that flourished in the 18th century?" "The radiator is right behind me, so I am never cold." "We had a horrible pudding today. It was some sort of orangey-lemony-pie.") There is a very glamorous letter from a family friend, written from her seat in first class on a plane ("I am enjoying some champagne.") And also a little notebook, in which I kept my first ever diary, in May 1989, when I was seven years old.
It's a reporters' notebook, and opening it hit me with such a flash of recognition it was almost disorienting. All at once I remembered the pen I wrote it with: it had many coloured inks, and there was a great deal of satisfication gained in switching from colour to colour. Which I did, switching at almost every word, so that the writing (in careful "joined up" letters) is dizzying to read. I think I thought I was being artistic. To every page I taped a little envelope, in which is a drawing, and just in case there is any doubt about authorship, I have written "Pictures by Philip Womack" on the envelopes.
The entries are a tiny snapshot of childhood in Sussex in the 1980s: a picnic in the grounds of Chichester Cathedral; throwing stones into the sea; falling off a step and grazing a knee; buying mint creams. I was particularly interested in how long I could hang on the climbing frame we had in the garden, recording it down to the second. In gymnastics, "We did things with a ball, then we did things with a stick and along peice [sic] of silk." We visit the library, buy comics, go to the bookshop and buy Roald Dahl's The Magic Finger. An early interest in newspapers is apparent: "I hanged from the climbing frame for 164 seconds! Then I read YOUNG TELEGRAPH" (I attempted to reproduce the typeface.) I play "spaceships" and "bakeries" with my brother, build sandcastles on the beach. "Daddy came home and gave us a pound!" I note, excitedly, and then "I got some envelopes!" as excited about them as the money.
I don't remember any of the specific events, although as I write this, little flashes begin to appear; perhaps those days will return to me soon.
As a small child, I remember being very puzzled about why adults would want to read diaries. I vividly remember Frances Partridge, a member of the Bloomsbury set, publishing hers, and there being stories about them all over the newspapers. Why? I wondered. Why on earth would anyone want to read something as boring as a daily record? Where's the excitement? Where are the pirates? But now, I understand, because diaries are, aside from letters, the most intimate expressions we have of what it feels like to be a person. They are records of period and personality. These days, I'd be happy to read a shopping list, if it came from the 18th century.
I am so glad that I wrote this little journal, and so pleased that we kept it in a box in the attic for over thirty years. It's a reminder that not much has changed about childhood, that those children growing up now will experience the same small delights and upsets.
And if nothing else, it's a window into time past through which both I, and my children, can peer. Your Facebook posts will vanish, your Instagram feeds will disappear. But your diaries: they'll hang around for as long as the paper lasts.
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