I was 18. I had just started doing my A levels. I was in a college in a small town in the south eastern countryside. I had a couple of not very serious boyfriends. I was on the periphery of the popular crowd. I changed my fancy every two seconds – and I didn’t stand a chance with any of the lads I fancied. I lived with my then best friend in a house my parents built. We went to the pub on Friday evenings to flirt with the village lads.

Now you’ve got the background – this is what was occupying my 18 year old mind 10 years ago (yesterday). All spellings and rubbish grammar as written and names changed to protect the innocent:

12 days till freedom [presumably 12 days until the end of A levels]. I can’t wait. I am getting severly stressed and pissed off with the whole thing. I am not nervous at the moment but I know I will be bricking it tomorrow morning.

I made a list up for those I would like to pull at the Prom. Its not much of a surprise really

• M1
• M2
• M3
• M4

[Ed's note: seriously, the four lads I listed all had names beginning with M. I obviously wasn't very original - neither were the parents of the 1980s]

M1 is my main target but it depends if hes going out with anyone by then. M2 is going out with a 1st year called P but I doubt theyll still be together. M3? Idon’t know. M4? Ditto.

A couple of weeks later:

It is 3.42am on FRIDAY and I am mullered.

Just been to Prom.

DID NOT PULL

although things with M1 look promising – maybe.

M2 is 2gether with M [another M but this time a girl] again.

M3 is going out with some disgustingly gorge girl.

GOOD NIGHT.

*rolls eyes* Ah to be 18 again and simply worrying about who I may or may not pull. If only life was that simple now eh? Now it’s all about bills and work and houses and friends and friends getting married and friends having babies.

If I could go back and visit my 18 year old self, what would I say? Chill out. Seriously girl, both you, and these guys you fancy will change so much in the next 10 years, you won’t recognise yourself.

And, neatly joining 18 year old me and 28 year old me, The Crush has made a reemergence onto the scene.  I realise, reading through the archives that I haven’t really told you about him. Not really. You will have already established that he’s in the army. You won’t know that I went to college with him (see what I did there?) and that I haven’t seen him since we left college 10 years ago. You also won’t know that I haven’t even thought about him in the last 7 years. And that in the dying moments of my relationship with N, it was The Crush that I was thinking about.

We were talking on Skype the other name (username: nuttycow btw) and I mentioned that I had found the diary.

“Am I in it?” he asked. Leafing through the pages, I note that he doesn’t come up that much, despite us being in the same group of friends. In fact, there’s only one mention – he asked me if I fancied one of my friend’s boyfriends. And that’s it. The man I now look forward to speaking to most nights, the one who sends me cheerily dirty text messages features just once in my 18 year old life.

And now the big question: how can you have a crush on someone you haven’t seen for 10 years?

The tragedy of old age is not that one is old, but that one is young

- Oscar Wilde, The Picture of Dorian Grey (1891)

I’ve been thinking a lot about getting old recently. I’ve been thinking about my parents getting older (as indeed, they must). I’ve been thinking about my friends getting older. I’ve been thinking about myself getting older.

I was out this evening with a group of friends. One asked me “do you fancy joining me on an 18-30 holiday this summer”. I answered, in all truthfulness that I “couldn’t imagine anything worse”. “So?” she said, “what do you like doing on holiday?”

What do I like doing?

I like long days interspersed with long meals. Good food, better wine, excellent company. I like doing things and seeing things and experiencing things. I like using my hands. I like being so tired at the end of the day that I want to collapse with a tall glass of something cool. I like photos of people and places I remember, of memories and stories. I like doing things that I’ve never done before, or, if I have, that I don’t do too often. I like that feeling at the end of the day that I’ve achieved something. I like talking to friends. I like meeting new people. I like long conversations and raucous card games. I like never feeling that I have to do something or be someone.

This Sunday was possibly the best day I’ve had since I left the UK. Sunday morning saw me drive to France to meet up with a friend of my mothers – we went to a local village (all medieval towers and stone buildings. Cobbled streets and side cafes) to their annual car boot sale. Rifling through junk, finding some treasures, all in the boiling sun.

Footsore and weighed down with goodies, we then went back to her house on the lakeside where we spent the rest of the morning collecting leaves and chopping bamboo and planting flowers and making bonfires.

A late lunch with a chilled rose and then onto sanding down a table, vanishing it, waxing it, ready for it to go in the back of the car and back home. An evening spent out on the terrace watching the sun go down over the mountains dodging the kamikaze mosquitos.

A cup of tea, a good book (Oscar Wilde plays since you ask) and bed. To sleep like the dead.

A good day all round.

Does this mean I’m getting old?!

T had the bed by the cupboards, L was by the window, O was on the bottom bunk, I was on the top and M? M was in the middle bed.

Symes House looked as though it had been built in the mid 1960s (although the  main school itself first opened its doors in September 1885 to just 11 boarders and 6 day students). Named after a former headmistress, the boarding house was (and still is although I think it’s got much better recently. They’ve now got carpets!)  a small, squat building with big windows and echoing staircases home to 30 girls under the age of 12. The second floor was populated by five dorms and a bathroom. The ground floor had a big common room, two small music rooms, another bathroom and the tuck cupboard.

Two harridans ruled the house with an iron fist. Mrs W, a wrinkly woman of about 90 (probably. She was probably only about 60 but to our young 8 year old eyes, she was ancient) was the house mistress. The position of matron was taken by Miss C. A fresh faced, smooth skinned, 30 year old virgin with a penchant for looking at young girls in the showers (she was fired soon after I left).

After lights out, you could always tell who was lurking by the footsteps. Mrs W shuffled. Her steps sounding like the rustling of leaves. Miss C clomped. Her heavy shoes resonating round the hollows walls.

T, L, O, M and I had been put in “St Michael’s” for our first year.

“You new girls can go together” Miss C simpered “You can all become the best of friends”.

M had an elder sister who was already at the school. This meant she had insider knowledge. She knew which mistresses were mean. She knew which of the masters wouldn’t give you homework. And she knew about Mrs Symes.

At midnight on the cusp of Friday 13th and Saturday 14th, Mrs Symes’ ghost would come and sit on the foot of the middle bed of St Michael’s.  She would sit there until dawn. Watching. Waiting for movement. If the unsuspecting child in the middle bed should kick her, they were doomed. Mrs Symes would curse them. Would curse their family. No one would survive.

The night of the 13th drew in. The occupants of St Michael’s were still. Except one. M lay awake, looking at the luminescent digital clock on her bedside table. The numbers flicked by.

At 11:47pm she could no longer stand it. Quietly, quickly, she crept out of bed.

She was found the next morning, asleep in the bathroom.

The curse of Mrs Symes had been averted for another year.

Suddenly I’m no longer at work.

I’m 8. Christmas is snowy. Presents are bountiful.  Nothing is bad or scary. I’m not worried about anything. The holidays last forever. School isn’t until next year.

A wry smile plays on my lips. It can’t have been that good. We used to wear DMs, listen to Bros and it was still about 5 years before I got a gameboy.

Are there any Christmas songs which take you back to childhood?

In London alone, there are 169 different gangs, each with their own patch, their own rules and their own way of doing things.

I was once in a gang. In fact, I used to be a gang leader.

It was a family affair. It was started by my mother, I became leader and set about recruiting new members.

The tiny village I lived in had never seen anything like it before. Suddenly gang emblems were springing up all over the place. People wore their membership like a badge.

That’s right. They were members of the Happy Gang.

I was never entirely sure what my new gang did. We didn’t have a secret handshake. We didn’t have an initiation.

We did have badges though.

And headed paper.

Bent double, like old beggars under sacks, 
Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge, 
Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs 
And towards our distant rest began to trudge. 
Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots 
But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame; all blind; 
Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots
Of tired, outstripped Five-Nines that dropped behind.

Gas! Gas! Quick, boys! –  An ecstasy of fumbling, 
Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time; 
But someone still was yelling out and stumbling, 
And flound’ring like a man in fire or lime . . . 
Dim, through the misty panes and thick green light, 
As under a green sea, I saw him drowning. 
In all my dreams, before my helpless sight, 
He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning. 

If in some smothering dreams you too could pace 
Behind the wagon that we flung him in, 
And watch the white eyes writhing in his face, 
His hanging face, like a devil’s sick of sin; 
If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood 
Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs, 
Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud
Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues, 
My friend, you would not tell with such high zest 
To children ardent for some desperate glory, 
The old Lie; Dulce et Decorum est 
Pro patria mori.

I am Nicole, an 18 year old idealist with a lefty poet boyfriend. The year is 1942. The place is Casablanca, in the latest days of Vichy – America has just entered the war and next month US troops will land in Casablanca, but for now, France rules this corner of North-West Africa.

I’m getting a little bit too excited. I think it’s because I have images of myself looking like this:

We all know that’s not going to happen.

However, I do need your assistance oh lovely people of the interwebs. I’ve done some research but I’d like you to do some too. I need links for the following:

• 1940s fashion – what did people wear, prints, colours, style, handbags, jewellery
• 1940s hair – how was it worn, how do I do it (preferably with pictures and detailed instructions)
• 1940s makeup – what, how
• 1940s vocabulary – any particular words which were tres fashionable in 1942

Any help or tips you can give would be great. Have you ever done one of these before? What are they like? What happens if it turns out you are the murderer?

I was at a course the other day and the instructor said to us:

It’s like when you’re on the tube and someone has their music on really loud. How many of you would just love to go over there and tell them to turn it down?

There were nods of agreement. Murmurs. And I sat there, thinking. 

If I’d been asked the same question a couple of years ago, I would have laughed. A couple of years ago, I wouldn’t have thought twice about speaking up.

Ask me now and I pause.

Has the media hysteria got to me too? Am I scared of doing what I know is right, just because I might get stabbed? Is it just me? Does everyone feel this way? 

Generally speaking, I think yes. I think there is a general reluctance amongst the population to get involved with anyone else’s business – no matter how much it goes against our own personal feelings about manners, ethics, social norms.

You could attribute reluctance to the fight or flight syndrome. Those who are weaker, instinctly run. It’s a means of self preservation. Isn’t it? And there they stand, the stronger ones, the leaders of the pack, forging forward because they can. Because they know they will win.

You could attribute reluctance to a general breakdown of awareness. Are people so insulated in their little life bubbles that they don’t see what’s going on around them? Russell Brand has recently been in the news for helping out a damsel in distress. He was the only person who stopped to help a woman who seemed to have fallen over. 10 people walked on by. What kind of society have we become where people are scared of helping those in need? Scared that if they speak up and say or do something different, we will be punished?

You could attribute reluctance to apathy. People just don’t care anymore. As long as they are able to continue to live their life in the way they want, then why rock the boat? Why bother speaking up? Why bother having a say? It’s not like anyone listens anyway. Is it?

It annoys me that it’s got to this. It annoys me that I feel a hundred years old for thinking like this. That I’ve somehow become that smelly old fart in the corner of the pub whom no-one really likes because he mutters on about “the good old days”. It annoys me that I sound more and more like a Daily Mail reader every day.

But really (and I won’t press the point here) it shouldn’t be like this, should it? Us, the ones who don’t break the law, who aren’t so angry inside. We’re not the ones who should feel like we’re in the wrong. We’re not the weak ones. We should have to go into some prehistoric flight mode. We should be the survivors.

So what can be done to solve the problem? I don’t pretend to be a guru. Or even right. But, for what it’s worth, here’s my tup’pence.

Education:

Everyone harps on about it. The whole time. It’s all about education. Well, as much as I hate to admit it, Tony Blair did get something right. It is about the education. As we grow up, we take so much information in. We’re like sponges, looking at the world around us and how it works. Watching how other people act. Watching how our parents act. We need to make sure that what we’re taking in is not only useful but socially sound.

To do that, we need teachers and good schools. For that, we need money. Money comes from the Government and from our taxes. Surely, surely I’m not mad in thinking that funding needs to be found? It needs to be found and not spent on form-filling and risk assessments, not spent on making up new nursery rhymes?

Teachers should get on with teaching. Reading, writing, maths, the sciences, the arts. In the UK, a staggering fifth of children start secondary school not being able to read. Over 5 million adults have a reading age of 12 or less. Can you imagine what it would be like not to be able to read? How many doors would be closed to you? How easy would it be to give up on life?

It’s clear (to me at least) that making sure children get a sound education is key. It’s not about everyone going to University. No. Not everyone needs to go to University. For some people it’s the wrong decision. It’s money badly spent with no gain. Some people get on better in the workplace. Some people are vocational in nature. In order for the next generation to have aspiration and goals, we need to make sure that their skills are being catered for. We need to make sure that if they want to become a plumber or a nurse or a teacher or a rocket scientist – that they have the opportunity. No matter where they’re from. How much money they have. Those who have the skill, can. Those who don’t should be helped to achieve it. It’s all about putting a meritocratic society in place and ensuring that everyone gets the opportunity to better themselves.

Role models:

It’s very clear to everyone who reads this blog that football is not my favourite sport. On the whole, I don’t think people should be paid so much money for doing so little. However, there is a vitally important role that these sportsmen in the spotlight can play. By being viable, believable role models for children, they might just be able to make a difference.

Rap stars, singers. No, bad role models. Guns, drugs, hedonistic lifestyles (yes, yes, I’m generalising but I’m allowed to, it’s my blog). Athletes, sportsmen. Good role models. What could be better than getting out of the house, away from the television and playing a team sport? Exercise, friendship, rules and laws to abide to, competition, a chance to excel, aspiration. Yes, sport is good.

It’s unrealistic to think that because someone is a role model that they can no longer have any form of life. However, it is realistic to think that what goes on in their private life should stay private. Don’t get me wrong, I read News of the Screws. And yes, I enjoy it. But should this schadenfreude get in the way of what’s good for society? I’m not by any means suggesting that there should be a censor on the press. No. What I’m saying is that sometimes these stories aren’t stories. They’re not news and therefore have no place in a newspaper. Some woman’s attempt at revenge because she was jilted is not fitting of the title news.

Backup:

If people are going to make a stand and try and help, then they have to know that someone is there to go with them.

Change can be started by one person, but it cannot be sustained alone.

If things are going to change then there needs to be people to want to make that change and ,more importantly, believe that change can happen and that the world needs to be changed.

It got me thinking about lost friends. Once they’re gone, is it a good idea to try and renew the friendship or do you just let things go?

I have an old friend, T (old as in the length of time I’ve known her, not age). She and I were inseparable. We went to the same school for about four years. She lived with us for about three. We were like sisters. And then, aged 8, we were separated. Different schools. Different friends. Different lives.

I haven’t heard from T in about 7 years. We met up once, while I was at Uni. It was odd. I always thought we had the kind of friendship in which, no matter how long it had been since we last saw each other, we would fall back into the old routine. It didn’t. We both had new lives. I was busy getting drunk at University. She was busy being friends with a certain Royal and going to fabulous parties at the palace. I was getting on with my “solid drinking degree”. She was reading History of Art. Probably.

Her brother died not so long ago. I thought about getting in touch but didn’t. Would it seem contrived? Would it seem like I was just getting in touch because I felt I should, not because I cared?

And so now, many years later, I think about her again. Will we ever be friends again? If I got married, would I invite her? Would she come? Would she care? What’s she doing? Who’s she with? Should I just let the friendship go?

I open up my email and write a quick note, addressing it to an email address from long ago, unsure whether it’s the right one or whether the subject will welcome the intrusion into her new life. It pings away into cyberspace.

I think it’s time to try and reunite.