Disclaimer: I am not C.S. Lewis, nor am I affiliated with him in any way. So far, I do not own any characters, and as for storyline, there is none. To the others here, forgive me if I subconsciously thought one of your ideas was so good that I had to put it in. I do not know of any, but an ounce of prevention is worth a pound of cure, right?

Dear Diary:

It's been rather difficult to adjust back to England, especially after getting accustomed to the country, and then having to come back to London. Cars still frighten me, and I wish for my trusty charger.

Everything seems different, somehow. We came back from the Professor's house only yesterday, and even though I've lived in London my entire life, I was still more at ease in the country. It was more like Narnia, I suppose.

Even Mum seems different, although perhaps it's only the way I view her. Seems we're older, now, and we can understand her better than the children we seem to be are supposed to. She's confused, especially when she looks into Peter's eyes. That she sees his soul there at all surprises her, I think—he was always so reserved. But it must be strange to see the soul, not of her shy, timid boy, but a grown man. He's grown up—grown into a king. He's fought witches, battled ogres and minotaurs, and defeated giants. I seriously doubt she'd believe us if we told her that, though. Better to let her think he grew up from the horrors of war and the responsibility of caring for his younger siblings. In some ways, it's true. Wars—several, in fact—did shape him into the man he was. And caring for us, his siblings, as we grew from children to adults did figure into it. Of course, so did King Lune's wise counsel and Pete's extensive diplomatic experience. We aren't lying to Mum—just not giving her all the details. She doesn't need to know. She wouldn't understand.

She thinks we need to sleep eight hours! Doesn't she realize we used to fall asleep in the wee hours of the morning, having danced with dryads and fauns all night? Of course she doesn't. Not only do our tender years require eight hours of undisturbed sleep in a room lit by one of those awful night-lights, but we need a cup of warm milk before bed! Once I slipped up and told her I'd rather have spiced wine. Thankfully, she thought I was joking. Peter was looking daggers at me behind her back, and I hope I didn't look too frightened.

My old wounds have been aching again. I never had this much trouble with them in Narnia—perhaps because it was mainly sunny there. Here in England it's always cold and damp—even in summer.

The strange thing is that I have no wounds. They hurt terribly, but they aren't there. The place where the Witch stabbed me with her broken wand is as smooth and clear as the rest of my body. Yet whenever I move, the old pain begins—burning and throbbing. Not exactly helpful when I'm signed up for the rugby team.

Speaking of scars, only yesterday I got into a fight—I was sorely provoked, I'll have you know—and I broke my nose. Unfortunately, Mum was there, and at the sight of all the blood gushing from my nose, she looked rather sick. So did Su, but Lu just calmly reached over and stopped the bleeding with her handkerchief while Peter set it. This is the twentieth time I've broken my nose, so this is routine procedure.

Mum, however, insisted on taking me to the doctor and having me carefully examined.

"By the Mane, this is too much!" exclaimed Lucy in exasperation. "He'll be all right. We've all done—" Peter's hand clamped over her mouth and she said no more.

Imagine Mum's surprise when the doctor said, "You should be a surgeon, Peter. I've done worse work than this. How did you learn?"

Peter's eyes filled with tears, but his voice shook only slightly as he said, "I suppose I have a natural talent." We all know better. He's set my nose nineteen times in Narnia, not to mention centaur legs and even a leopard's jaw. We were hardly going to tell the doctor that.

It's so hard to be a child again!