In my hypothetical garage, there is a hypothetical punchbag for anger and frustration moments. If my whole family went at it for a week, it would fall apart.

I'm meeting new people with the shop tags still attached. Won't cut them off quite yet.

I need new things. A new room. New mattress. New coat of paint. New books and a new diary. The idea of a diary becomes more and more attractive every day. I discovered my old ones stacked at the bottom of my wooden box, but didn't pull them out. They are from the days when I was young and naive and emotional. I wouldn't stoop to such qualities today. They are full of meaningless sentences -

"I went for a walk today and then I came back and we ate lasagne and daddy shouted. We listened to classical music but it made me feel ill so I told him to switch it off and he was offended. School was boring. I don't sit next to Steff anymore even though I wished for it at the wishing well and tied a hanky to the branch. I also threw a coin in. My brother wished for the fire engine from Early Learning Centre."

It makes me want to be seven again.