January 1st 1792
The first day of a new year. Quite an anticlimax really, as it feels much the same as any other. I would be disappointed, but then again I had not expected there to be any great change in the first place. Indeed, why should things be any different? Just because we now write 92 instead of 91, does that mean that somehow a miracle should take place and all life must change with it? I think not. I awoke around midday to Suzy pulling back the drapes, the sound of voices outside as the last of our guests from the previous night's festivities took their leave, and everything continued as normal. Those who see the New Year as a time for renewal, for a fresh start are, I am afraid to say, deluding themselves. Not that I can blame them for needing something to give them a sparkle of hope in the monotony of their everyday lives, but you would have expected them to have at least started to doubt by now.
I say that today has been the same as usual, but I have to admit to not being entirely truthful on that count. One thing is slightly out of the ordinary - I have started to keep a diary. I had always vowed I would never be caught dead indulging in the craze for writing down every intimate thought and feeling as most of my contemporaries seem to feel the need to, but due to boredom and a rather unhealthy does of maternal blackmail I have finally given in and taken up my pen.
"We saw it and thought of you Virginia dear," my mother felt obliged to inform me on Christmas morning as she handed me a parcel that could be nothing other than a book of some description. Having realised after 17 years the futility of pointing out to her the fact that everyone else manages perfectly well to call me Ginny and wondering briefly what kind instruction manual on how to be a lady in society she had managed to unearth this time, I held my tongue and unwrapped what was to prove to be the most interesting present I received this year.
A green, cloth covered book was revealed to my gaze, of taste so close to my own that I recognised at once the hand of my brother in choosing the gift. My suspicions were confirmed a moment later by the look on his face, and I smiled, thankful that at least someone in this family has managed to grasp the fact that Virginia-Rosaline Dewhurst is not simply a replica of her mother.
So here I am, writing my life for the whole world to see when I die. I wonder what people will say if they are reading this years after I have passed from this world, what kind of person they will think they are coming to know from reading my words. I am almost tempted to create a life, inventing someone from my own imagination for no purpose other than amusing myself and confusing others. But no, I will do this properly, and who knows, maybe one day I will be glad of what I have started on this cloudy and disagreeable January morning.
Mother has just been in to see me and to ask what my resolutions for the New Year are to be. I promptly told her - to follow in the footsteps of the rest of the society's finest and become an alcoholic, join a local brothel and after an exciting but lurid life, renounce the evils of the world and spend the rest of my days in a convent. If it weren't for the fact that people often have difficulty in telling us apart I would swear to the fact that woman is not my mother - she has no sense of humour. It set me to thinking though, and here for posterity, are my vows for this, the glittering year of 1792.
To be true to myself in everything I do, think and say and not to allow society to dictate what my heart knows to be wrong. In short, to continue as I always have done - to please my own conscience and try to keep from going mad in a world that does not seem to understand me. That is all. How hard can it be?
The first day of a new year. Quite an anticlimax really, as it feels much the same as any other. I would be disappointed, but then again I had not expected there to be any great change in the first place. Indeed, why should things be any different? Just because we now write 92 instead of 91, does that mean that somehow a miracle should take place and all life must change with it? I think not. I awoke around midday to Suzy pulling back the drapes, the sound of voices outside as the last of our guests from the previous night's festivities took their leave, and everything continued as normal. Those who see the New Year as a time for renewal, for a fresh start are, I am afraid to say, deluding themselves. Not that I can blame them for needing something to give them a sparkle of hope in the monotony of their everyday lives, but you would have expected them to have at least started to doubt by now.
I say that today has been the same as usual, but I have to admit to not being entirely truthful on that count. One thing is slightly out of the ordinary - I have started to keep a diary. I had always vowed I would never be caught dead indulging in the craze for writing down every intimate thought and feeling as most of my contemporaries seem to feel the need to, but due to boredom and a rather unhealthy does of maternal blackmail I have finally given in and taken up my pen.
"We saw it and thought of you Virginia dear," my mother felt obliged to inform me on Christmas morning as she handed me a parcel that could be nothing other than a book of some description. Having realised after 17 years the futility of pointing out to her the fact that everyone else manages perfectly well to call me Ginny and wondering briefly what kind instruction manual on how to be a lady in society she had managed to unearth this time, I held my tongue and unwrapped what was to prove to be the most interesting present I received this year.
A green, cloth covered book was revealed to my gaze, of taste so close to my own that I recognised at once the hand of my brother in choosing the gift. My suspicions were confirmed a moment later by the look on his face, and I smiled, thankful that at least someone in this family has managed to grasp the fact that Virginia-Rosaline Dewhurst is not simply a replica of her mother.
So here I am, writing my life for the whole world to see when I die. I wonder what people will say if they are reading this years after I have passed from this world, what kind of person they will think they are coming to know from reading my words. I am almost tempted to create a life, inventing someone from my own imagination for no purpose other than amusing myself and confusing others. But no, I will do this properly, and who knows, maybe one day I will be glad of what I have started on this cloudy and disagreeable January morning.
Mother has just been in to see me and to ask what my resolutions for the New Year are to be. I promptly told her - to follow in the footsteps of the rest of the society's finest and become an alcoholic, join a local brothel and after an exciting but lurid life, renounce the evils of the world and spend the rest of my days in a convent. If it weren't for the fact that people often have difficulty in telling us apart I would swear to the fact that woman is not my mother - she has no sense of humour. It set me to thinking though, and here for posterity, are my vows for this, the glittering year of 1792.
To be true to myself in everything I do, think and say and not to allow society to dictate what my heart knows to be wrong. In short, to continue as I always have done - to please my own conscience and try to keep from going mad in a world that does not seem to understand me. That is all. How hard can it be?