I’d had occasion to delve into the depths of old diaries. I had kept them on and off for years, but when I went to work in France in 1981 my mother bought me an A4 book and suggested I keep a record of the adventure.
The opening passage I had scribbled through the tears at the station after saying goodbye. It was short and factual, barely conveying the emotion of the moment. Over the next few weeks, it records the daily adventure in some detail and it is lovely to have the memories held there, the small things that would have been lost in the shadows cast by the bigger events.
Over time, however, living in a land that was not my own, when communication with home and family was by snail-mail and the friends I was making were new and spoke in a language I was still discovering…
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