Pre-sleep musing and cocoa

Hi, it's the wife. The 'Maria' part of the 'Jonny and Maria' outfit currently gracing your screens. I've never written a blog before but I've been an avid diary writing for many years now. I first kept a diary when I was eight years old. It was only a little, tatty green book and I didn't exactly write huge amounts but it was my diary. I imagine it's currently residing in a landfill site somewhere in the west of London. This is because my father had a phobia of books and writing of most kinds unless it was the racing pages at the back of the paper. I used to illustrate my day as well. I was in hospital once so I used to draw fetching sketches of me propped up on pillows eating grapes.
One of my favourite diaries was my 1991 edition; I was 12 to 13 at the time. The focus was mainly adolescent boys, haircuts and school. Perhaps I liked it so much because it created an image of normality. I also used to draw sketches too. This became the norm when I wasn't bothered writing the words in the entries. So a reader, or me 16 years later, would have to guess what the day was about through the medium of a fat-tipped felt pen.
Every teenaged-diary writer makes a thing about the secrecy issue. The inside front cover would always feature a warning to peeping eyes that was somewhat worded like a gypsy's curse, "If you dare to read this diary you suffer!" Oh yeah, like anyone would. Firstly, I was an only child and secondly my parents couldn't read English properly, apart from racing details in tabloid newspapers, which we've already stated.
My current diary is a return to form after a few years of sporadic scribbling. I'm managing to write something every day, despite the varying quality of the entries. I wonder what the point of writing a diary is, or indeed a blog? I think it's something that you only gain some semblance of pleasure from when you are actually writing. I'll think it over and tell you another day, I'm off for my comforting hot drink before nap time.