…Ronald Reagan was 76 or 77 years old today.
And I was 12.
I got some clothes, £10, a notepad, a mini stationery set, two films for my camera,
a board game, a writing set and something else that I’ve forgotten.
I have a grand total of six cards.
I’m not having any sort of party, as I don’t want one,
and nobody would have come anyway.
But I’m writing this early in the evening, because there is a 007 film on in a bit.
It is one I haven’t seen: The Man With the Golden Gun.
I wonder if it will be any good…
Today, exactly two years on from when I started this blog, seems a good time to bring things to a close.
Anyone looking in even semi-regularly will have felt the last few months’ extracts turn increasingly, not to say noxiously, adolescent. Despite my best efforts to undercut everything with latterday flippancy, there’s no disguising the hastening of great gales of self-obsession, sulks and, worse of all, self-pity.
I’ve also been omitting more and more bits of the original text, and sometimes not reproducing anything from the diary for days on end, which completely undermines the whole point of this blog.
So it’s time to throw a damp towel over proceedings before the smouldering gets too much to bear.
Thanks to everyone who has left comments and been in touch. It’s been nice to know some of what I’ve published has struck a chord or prompted other memories that people have been willing to share.
The newly-12-year-old me would continue his diary, starting with impressions of yet another keenly-anticipated James Bond film.
But that, and everything else to follow, is best left unsaid, on his behalf let alone that of everyone else.
Instead, let’s leave him here, in blissful ignorance at how the next few hours, along with the next few years, will turn out.