My darling diary,

You have been so cruelly neglected, for six long months.

While you have been ensconced in this digital prison, longing for my fingers to take to keyboard and talk to you, I have been holding secret trysts with your paper cousin.

It’s true, I fear, my cyber sweetheart. I have taken to journalling, pen to paper, thought to page, every day.

My paper diary knows many things that you do not, my beautiful blog. It knows that OOglies won a BAFTA. It knows about my acting projects. It knows that I work as a journalist. It knows I have made many new friends. It knows I have tried new things. It knows I have pushed myself.

It knows that I have loved, and lost, and changed, and grown, and shrunk, and hurt, and kissed, and wept, and wondered, and learned, and laughed, and shifted, and a great many things besides.

It does not matter, my digital darling, that I first thought I would be writing a great literary diary, and have discovered that I have more in common with Adrian Mole and Bridget Jones. It does not matter that I spill my secrets in the same way as I did when I was 15, scrawling the details of my emotional turmoil and daily activities between the narrow lines in an everchanging hand. It does not even matter that it has become the sort of journal that nobody but I should ever read.

All that matters, my wordpress wonder, is that I am now a diarist.