The day Mum read my diary
Remember the days before technology took off? When a mobile phone was more ‘phone’ than mobile, and each computer was the size of a small skyscraper? When a diary was a small scruffy book with Winnie the Poo on the cover?
I was musing the other day on whether technology has become far too clever for its own good. Consider the phone hacking scandal; it’s caused fisticuffs everywhere; leaving an unsettled Rebekah Brooks looking like a cocker spaniel in a wind tunnel. Would life have been simpler if we had stayed with our old fashioned phones and trusty pen and paper?
I was 13 when my mother read my diary. Apparently she ‘came across it’ whilst on her knees groping under my mattress. In a fit of blind terror it magically broke its own lock, and Mother settled down for a Jolly Good Read.
To be fair, she reacted really well. She only grounded me indefinitely and banished my best friend from the house. For ever.
So even back in the Seventies a stubby pencil and a hacked Winnie the Pooh diary could still create a maelstrom all of its own.
There are two morals to this tale. Firstly, never underestimate the dangers of communication, whatever scale it might be on. Secondly, if you’re referring to your Mother as a witch, at least have the grace to spell it correctly.