Scribbling in my diary by the side of Jane and Ken's pool

I have always kept a diary - Jay once said to me - you just have to record things don't you? - we were on the Virgin Pendulo, bound for Glasgow Central - the sleek train tore past grey cities - we drank scalding coffee from paper cups - Richard sat quietly, shaping verse - fierce women glared at creepy magazines - motorways and canals bisected landscapes -

Jay's right, of course - but it's more than just a matter of recording - I want to write down every secret thing - in The Old School House, there are the tiny pocket diaries I kept in my early twenties - brief entries record heartbreak and delight - at university, my diaries had been more extensive, written compulsively, the words lolloping over the page - now, I write with a Mont Blanc fountain pen - it was a retirement gift from colleagues -

I want to capture, in nets of words, all that happens to me, all of the stories I am part of - whenever I read a sentence, or a phrase, from my diaries, they conjure up these stories for me - they make everything new -

I can hear, once more, that song on a juke box which had stirred my soul - I can smell, once more, the smoke in Annick's hair - my heart lurches as it did when I first kissed Anne -

When I stay at Jane and Ken's, I sit by their pool - I swim in the cool water - I pick up my biro, I scribble some words - I look at my hat - I seek out new stories - in the act of writing something down, I am holding back time - I am shaping my own story -