It seems a theme is developing. Building on my ample time to resurrect old memories while crippled earlier this year, yesterday I opened an old memory box and pulled out a bunch of diaries from the 90's.
At first I thought my weekend would be consumed by them, but after randomly picking up a 1993 edition and immersing myself in my 18th year, I think I'll work through them more slowly.
So much to remember, so much to learn.
21 years later, that Molly, the 1993 version, has shown me ...
That she would be so, so happy to know that she is now married to Charl. That they have two little girls and a wonderful life.
In 1993 I'm still counting down our anniversaries in months, and my weeks hinge around seeing him again.
That I have always been creative.
I know that obviously. I have my means of expression (birthday cakes being right up there), but I've also always had friends who create for a living - beautiful handmade things - and I suspect that has prevented me from taking myself seriously, or made me vaguely apologetic for the very homemade nature of my handwork.
That I spent very few weekends and holidays at home. As an adult daughter, and a parent, this sobers me, but I have also been reminded about so many good times with wonderful friends ... foundation-building times, for friendships and myself.
If I'm bored I don't make the effort. I've often regarded this as a character flaw but you know what, I've always been like this. My school results from first quarter 1993 will confirm - winging it in English and History, barely scraping through the rest.
Life's too short you know?
I'm always telling a story. There's a narrative, a bunch of sub plots, character definitions, scenery, atmosphere to every experience I have. I'm telling myself as it happens and I rewrite and hone in my subconscious for long while after.
So why the fuck aren't I writing this stuff down?
There are clippings for writing competitions stuck all over 1993, I don't recall entering anything to any of them. Have I been carrying the same writer's block for 21 years? No wonder my fucking ankles are going.
That I was happy. As grown as I felt, I can see now that despite being 18, and world wise and clubbing and going on road trips and wearing big girl pants, I was still at school, living with my parents. From 2014 I still look very much like a child.
But I was strong, and confident and adventurous too, and this pleases me. My god, 18 was fun.