This weekend I've been looking at some of my old diaries, which sit piled up in a dusty box in a dark cupboard. I go through stages of wanting to chuck them all away, as they are filled with cringe-worthy awfulness, usually about unrequited love - and that particular habit goes right back to my very first real diary written at the very innocent age of 15. All that wasted time pining, all those broken hearts! What I also notice is the long detailed lists (and goals) and how, to my horror, they haven't really changed much at all. It's the never-ending list, with the same 3kg to lose and the imaginary amazing peak of fitness that I will definitely achieve by the end of every year. What would happen if I gave up my lists? Or threw away my diaries? The thing is, I can't bring myself to do it. When I read them I remember past lives I had forgotten. I would never remember that kind of detail without them. So they are here to stay, for the meantime at least, and as a reminder to keep writing, so I don't forget.