January 1st, 2012 (about 12.30 am)
Number of people at New Years party hosted by my older sister Elizabeth and my Father, Walter: innumerable.
Number of toasts made by my father since midnight: 3
Number of "Oh, Anne, how's the love life?" comments: too many
Number of decent songs on this playlist: still to be determined…
Time spent hiding in my study: most of the evening
Number of New Years resolutions I've made: 0
I hate New Years parties. I hate New Years in general. There's just something about the notion of 'making a new start' that doesn't sit well with me. I think it's because you only live once and starting again is actually not possible. I've become a bit bitter as I've gotten older.
My father loves to throw parties, he loves to be seen hosting important events that people would kill to receive invites for, he enjoys being seen in general. He's a bit of a socialite my father.
I've been hiding in my study for a while now, ever since before midnight was chimed in. I think I escaped the fray about five minutes to, very glad to escape the general ruckus that's going on in the ground floor of my family's home. I've never enjoyed the social scene, most of the people that come to the events hosted by my father aren't up for intelligent conversation regarding Shakespeare or share theories regarding Marvel comic movie adaptations. It's usually money talk, or gossip regarding whom has slept with whom, and who's expecting a large shiny rock sometime soon.
If I joined with such shallow conversation the only gossip I could add would be news that's five years old.
Not that anyone would care what happened to Anne Elliot five years ago. I mean, she's Walter Elliot's middle daughter, and middle children are notorious for being the forgotten child.
But, despite the fact that I love to have conversations in which I can reveal my inner-nerd, I just want to tell someone, anyone, my story.
Which brings me to alteration number one to my previous tally
Number of NY resolutions: 1
What is this resolution(?) I hear my computer ask me… I want to tell my story, and since I lack someone in my life who actually cares enough about what comes out of my mouth, I'm going to write it down instead. That way, in about 20 years time, when I've been consumed by my 50+ cats, there will be some record of my existence. Maybe this can be my life story, where it will be studied in schools many centuries from now, they'll be sitting in their space suits in their holographic classrooms, reading my story on eye implants that ensure the data is fed directly into their brains.
Now I'm just being morbid. Imagine HAVING to know my story. Eugh.
Okay. I'm really going to write my life story. And just so I don't chicken out, I'm starting it now.
My name is Anne Lucy Elliot, I'm 25 years old, and this is my story.
I am the middle of three children, and the only one of us who really resembles our mother. My two sisters take after my father in looks, both have blonde hair, blue eyes and have dainty features, my older sister Elizabeth takes after my father in personality as well, always desiring the spotlight. My younger sister Mary inherited a slightly different version of my fathers love of attention, she has a love of believing herself to be sick. All of the time.
I'm very different from my sisters. Elizabeth models expensive clothes, Mary married her college sweetheart three years ago and had children almost straight away (two beautiful boys so far, and a little girl on the way, due in April) and I threw myself into my studies about five years ago.
I keep thinking I've already mentioned the importance of it being five years since a particular event… but then I realise that it's from a previous attempt of me trying to vent all the things I've kept bottled up.
Yes, poor dear diary document, you're not the first I've started.
I suppose I should actually get to the pressing point of what actually happened five years ago…
I was at university, in my second year, studying English… and I was engaged.
Of course I had to be stupid enough to listen to my family's 'advice' and break it off, breaking my own heart in the process.
I will never forgive myself. He wont ever forgive me either. I don't blame him in the slightest, but I can't help but harbour some regret that things didn't end more civilly.
Fred Wentworth and I met inside the university library one windy afternoon in 2006, we were waiting in line for the automated book borrowing system and I, being the overachiever that I am, was overloaded with close to a dozen large textbooks and beginning to struggle under their weight (I was still three people away from being able to use the machine) and he was waiting in line behind me to borrow a single book on architecture. I don't really know if he felt sorry for the nerdy brunette midget that I am, or he was amused by the fact that the books in my arms went above my head, but he politely tapped my on the shoulder and asked if he could hold onto a few of my books for me. (I nearly kissed him right there and then.)
After that we met again at a party, we happened to have mutual friends and we spent much of the evening sitting at the counter in the kitchen talking about all the things we had in common. we shared a love of crime fiction novels, comic books, archaeology, Shakespeare and Dr Who. Before the evening was done, he asked me if I would like to join him in going to see the third X-Men movie as it had just been released (I said yes).
Thus began a whirlwind of romance. It was the best 15 months of my life.
However, my father, my older sister and my ever-present Aunt Ruth disapproved of him. Mary was away on a school trip, so she never met him.
In 2007 he proposed to me after an evening out…