A Mendelssohn kind of day

Today has been a Mendelssohn kind of day - lots of scampering about, but no real highs or lows. Okay, I know, that's unfair on Mendelssohn, whose music I actually think is terribly underrated. As normal, it's all Wagner's fault - most of the commonplaces people pedal about Mendelssohn come from him, despite Wagner's obvious debt to Mendelssohn. Wagner learned most of what he knew from Mendelssohn, but has since rather eclipsed his disavowed mentor .... Which is a shame, because I think we'd all be better off if our lives, our societies, our worlds were more Mendelssohnian, less Wagnerian - more Midsummer Night's Dream, less Gotterdammerung.

All of which is to say that a Mendelssohn day isn't too bad. I had far too many Wagnerian days earlier this year. But we won't talk about that.

Instead, we'll talk about diaries again. Walking home from work, I was thinking again about the connection between diaries and poos (in terms of web-logs). They have a lot in common: they're both generally things people do at the end of the day, and they're both seen as emptying, purging, cathartic acts. The diary is, in a sense, a way of excreting the day.

I can't promise to excrete this diary every day - I've managed two days in a row, which is a record since I was thirteenish. Back then, my short-lived, adolescent diaries would all have the same narrative structure: start diary when fancying a new girl; carry on diary whilst pursuing aforesaid girl; throw away diary when aforesaid girl told me she'd rather eat her own eyelids than have anything to do with me.

Given that I'm now married, that narrative structure is no longer open to me, so I'll be looking for different kinds of stories here.

So what was the story of today? Went to work, taught something or other, came home, had tea, couldn't find any beer in the fridge, excreted a blog entry, had a bath, went to bed. Not much of a narrative structure there. Rather Mendelssohnian, in fact. And that's just fine.

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.