The secret diary of a teenage schoolgirl. Chapter 1: The Disco

“I was your age once”…I heard myself saying to my daughters for the umpteenth time this year.

But no matter how often these words have passed my lips, my girls have a tough time believing I was ever their age at all. The other day, The Blonde (10) asked me what it was like when I was little, “You know Mum, in the Tudor times”. Cheek!

So there I was on Mother’s Day, feeling rather merry after quite a few glasses of mum’s magic grape water, when I decided that now was the time to head up the ladder into the land of yesteryear (otherwise known as the overcrowded loft) to look for evidence of my youth. Yes people, this could be dangerous, in more ways than one.

After 10 minutes of rummaging around in a few old boxes I struck gold…there in all its glory was the Holy Grail – my small, pink, stripy diary.

PRIVATE PROPERTY KEEP OUT (that means you)!!! I had eloquently written in my best bubble writing on the first page (shortly followed by a message to my brother threatening to reveal all his secrets if he dared to read mine!)

By all accounts I was your classic teenage schoolgirl – fully focused on all the really important things in life…my girl-friends, my hair and…oh my goodness…BOYS!

Well much hilarity followed when I came back down the ladder and read my diary out loud to the girls (scanning each page first quickly for anything too incriminating). Meanwhile hubby sat shaking his head and murmuring things like “why am I not surprised” and “that poor boy”…

We soon discovered (much to my surprise as I’d done a good job of erasing these years from my memory) that rather than being the studious, hard-working and school-focused young lady I had claimed to be to my children for all these years, my diary was in fact a log of all my biggest obsessions including: he-who-shall-not-be-named/what I may or may not wear to the disco/he-who-shall-not-be-named/what I might or might not do to my hair/he-who-shall-not-be-named/which of my friends might or might not go to the disco.

By now, after setting the scene with a few weeks worth of “the run up to the disco” diary entries I had one daughter rolling on the floor crying with laughter and the other with hiccups from such exertion. Eventually we get to the good bit…the girls are on the edge of their seats as the day of the disco approaches…OMG…even I’m getting nervous now!

Friday 18th January 1991. I’m 13 (nearly 14). It’s the night of the Disco…

I’ve done my hair, I’m wearing an “aran jumper with black tights and a mini-skirt” (heavens above I must have been hot), and the object of my affection, he-who-shall-not-be-named, has just arrived….

…he’s looking at me…my friends are giggling…I’ve been waiting for this moment all my life (well, at least a few weeks)…he’s coming over…he’s got crisps…and fizzy pop…he’s asked me to dance…oh my goodness, what do I say…?



No!!!! What was I thinking! Jeepers the 13 year old version of me was hard work!

“That poor boy” my hubby says again shaking his head…well, after nearly 20 years putting up with me he really is the voice of experience. “Nooooooooo” the girls shriek with disbelief!!

“Ok girls, that’s enough for today” I say shutting my diary and sitting on it (I need to read a bit further on in private now!) They are highly disappointed, they think this character is the most ridiculous and hilarious person they’ve ever heard of… er, that’s your mother girls! 

It was a very funny end to Mother’s Day. And I think I finally made my point, but what did I teach my girls about being a teen today? Not to wear woollen jumpers to discos? To be kind to boys who are brave enough to ask you to dance? I’m not sure really, but by the end of it one did have a little sparkle in her eye, maybe, it was from all that laughing, or maybe there’s a disco on the horizon ;o)


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