I don’t know where my diary is. My ‘real’ diary (as opposed to this virtual, public one), the one I’ve been writing on and off (mostly off, of course) for the last 11 years. Black hardback book, blank unruled pages, flimsy little lock, bought in France in 1990. I’ve had the impetuous to write in it twice fairly recently, but when I actually went to look, I realised I’m not sure what I’ve done with it. I know where it used to be, when I was in London. But since I moved up here… *shrug* Actually, I don’t know where a lot of things are. I really need to finish unpacking those last boxes, sort everything out. It must be around somewhere. I also realised the other day that I don’t know where the key for it is, either. Which is annoying, because the keyring it’s on also has the keys to the padlocks on my rucksack (looking for those was how I discovered my keylessness) and the key to my little lock-box. So now I can’t lock the zips together when I’m travelling, or get to things like my birth certificate, should I need them. I thought I had the keys, you know – thought they were where they’d always been, in a certain drawer, under a certain pile of stuff. But nope. Whoops.
