I get a little bit shivery whenever I think of my diaries. I kept one from age 9 (1 line per day, free with People's Friend, faithfully recording my tv viewing and meals. Haddock featured quite a lot) until early 30's.
They are sat in a bag on top of my wardrobe, and I desperately want to read through them, but remember my last attempt where I was willing the floor to actually, really, open up and swallow me. From the endless and tedious angst of my teenage years to the deep, philosophical ponderings (cringe-tastic) od my twenties, they are almost hypnotically awful.
There are also snippets of poetry (bad), humorous stories (really bad) and plays (beyond bad). These do give me one of my funniest memories however.
When I was a teen I really clashed with my dad. Basically we were very similar. Good relationship when I got older though. I used to moan a lot about him to my mum at the time.
A couple of years after he died, I was visiting mum, and she got all serious. Said there was something she'd wanted to ask me about for a long time, and now Needed To Know.
She took some crumpled sheets of paper out of a drawer and handed them to me, saying she'd found them in my bedroom bin when I was about 17, and had been really worried that I had such strong negative feelings towards my dad.
I read them, and they looked like lines of poetry about dead fathers, killing your father, violence etc.
Then I burst out laughing, and had to explain they were lines a friend and I had written when, inspired by West Side Story, we'd decided to write a musical based on Hamlet.
My poor mum's face was a picture. She did see the funny side though :)