January 1st, 2012 (mid-afternoon)

Kellynch house

Number of hangover, sleeping and snoring occupants in the house: 2 (though Elizabeth vehemently denies that she does.. Snore that is.)

Number of hours I've spent dedicated to cleaning up the mess from last night's entertainment: a fair few

Length of time it took for my father to escort me away from the computer after I started typing out the 'epic drama' that will probably end up being my eulogy: a few minutes.

Number of regrets in my life: 1, possibly 2 (depending on how this NY resolution turns out…)

In my last entry I got up to the point where I was being proposed to after a romantic dinner, right before my father's voice came over the whole-house intercom, his voice filling the room (I shrieked rather loudly, it was like being snuck up on by a Weeping Angel, or… no, Weeping Angel analogy works). He demanded that I rejoin the party and play my part (which is what exactly?!)

So, after saving this document I (very, very) reluctantly rejoined the mindless, noisy, socialite filled world that was the rest of our home.

This disaster (I'm exaggerating here, I'm just annoyed.) of a party could have been avoided if our mother was still here. Mum and dad divorced about seven years after Mary was born (and thus I always use this as a reason as to why my little sister is a hypochondriac), she had had enough of dad's flamboyant behaviour and wanted a quiet lifestyle. Poor dad never really stopped loving her, so when she was diagnosed with stage 4 pancreatic cancer when I was 14, dad ensured she had the best care. Not that it made much difference, by the time she had been diagnosed it was too late for treatment to make any effect.

After she passed away, dad took us on a holiday to Bath, we stayed there for about a year, until dad though he could cope with being at Kellynch House again. I hated it there. Despite the fascinating history, the people in period costume acting out various literary works… I hold no love for it. Ever.

At all.

Being back at home set dad off edge a bit, he filled his room with mirrors, as though seeing nothing but his reflection would drown out the fact that his soul mate was no longer around.

Things sort of went downhill financially from there. Mum used to be the one in charge of the accounts, making sure that we lived within our means (despite the fact we had rather a lot of 'means'). without mum to look after the money, dad sort of went a bit… enthusiastic with his spending… it was only aided by Elizabeth's love of buying a new outfit for what feels like very hour of every day.

To hit at the heart of the matter, we're not far off being broke. Yes I have my own income, Elizabeth has hers; both of us have legally untouchable (and I believe to be rather large) trust funds (they become ours when we get married, so Mary's already got hers); dad has his fortune from his acting days, but all the same, the amount in that once vast account is quickly dwindling to single digits.

Elizabeth has her modelling contract, so looking good (all the time) is a job requirement, she even sleeps in Gucci. This insistent compulsion of hers to look her best 24/7 has rubbed off onto dad, and nowadays, he's just as bad.

I'm not financial analyst, but I've looked at the yearly expenses for the main account. If we don't do something drastic, and soon, we're going to have to sell the house.

I did draw up some ideas when I was on lunch break at work, things like stock market investment, selling one or two of dad's vintage cars, Elizabeth selling 'old' clothes on eBay, not redecorating the ballroom and instead saving that money. However, all of those ideas were shot down straight up. Dad's cars were priceless and Elizabeth's clothes were definitely "NOT FOR SALE". the stock market idea was a potential goer until dad's lawyer came along and insisted that entering the stock market was a terrible idea and we'd lose more money than we earned.

So that was a strikeout on my part, I didn't tell them about the most outrageous idea I had come up with, I knew they'd never agree if I brought it up. Instead I went to my Aunt Ruth, my mother's sister and told her about it. Ruth has always been good at giving my dad good advice, and he listens to her because she has a similar approach to being responsible as my mum did.

Not that dad would ever marry Aunt Ruth, but I think he appreciates her presence all the same. I admit to telling Ruth a lot of things that go on in my life, and for the most part, she's pretty good at giving the right advice. However after she advised me to break off my engagement to Fred (after I had already accepted), things got a little tense between us.

You have to understand my reliance on her advice… my first boyfriend proposed to me, when I spent all of my teenage hood believing I was unable to find love, and without a mum to guide me through the pangs of high school dramas and teenage crushes. My older sister had just been offered a huge modelling contract, my father was still grieving over mum's death, Mary had just met Charles (and were snogging at every available moment) and I, for the first time ever found myself in love with a guy who was just as big of a misfit as I was.

But I was only 20 years old, and had 'my whole life ahead of me', according to Aunt Ruth, and "throwing it away on an architecture student" was apparently a rather idiotic idea.

Yes, because spending the past five years of my life dealing with an incurable broken heart, anti-depressant medication and a psychotic over-spending family whilst being stuck in a menial job that bears no resemblance to my dream career is just living it up.

Really, YOLO.

Now if only I could time travel back five years and stop myself from breaking it off…

It shouldn't really come as a surprise that I ended up regretting taking Ruth's advice. I have it on good authority that my life is meant to suck. Why else would I be the middle child, the only one to resemble my mother, have a socialite family when it's clear that I am far too awkward to blend in with that crowd? It's a cruel sign from the universe that my existence on earth is meant to be sucky.

I hear the unmistakeable sounds of life. Sounds like I'd better go and make a post-midday breakfast for them.. The poor hung-over dears.