Monday 29th August   

Being a girl raised in the fifties, I, like most of us, have existed without our potential ever being truly realised.  Nobody expected much of us girls, and my two role models had always been the recipients of the wealth of others. Grandma had lived in her father’s house and then her husband’s without ever having to work. And when potential disaster loomed when her husband died and she was potentially to be homeless and penniless, why, along came my father, recently orphaned and with his own money and a career in the diplomatic service to boot. My mother, as I am sure you are aware, also existed on his limited wealth, and has never had to work either; though what on earth she would have been fit for I really do not know. So it was hardly surprising that not much was expected of me, except maybe, to take over from Grandma when she got old, which I had started to do before I left home so suddenly.

But as to my own potential being realised not much thought was ever given – and very little by me either. I had idled away my schooldays and my employment in Accounts just fell into place. Nobody ever talked about a career for me, and I simply looked on my work as a source of income for the most part. Then, when I met Edward, he persuaded me to give up my little job, as he called it, and become a full-time housewife, and I suppose, housekeeper, for him.

The only real thing I have ever done was to write “Catherines Story”, and now I can hardly believe I, and I alone (you must not believe the name of the author on the cover) have achieved a childhood dream – to be a writer.  I just wonder where I would have been, had I ever been encouraged, at school or home to have pursued my potential, and had I worked at being a writer, rather than having simply recorded these desultory observations of a middle aged woman.  I wonder what I might have achieved then – or is this it, is this one, sort of autobiographical novel, to be it – or is there still more to come.  We will have to wait and see, won’t we.