My diaries may be a way to immortality, like creating buildings to outlive us. But I do not believe that anyone would really care for a woman of Halifax, a place of inconsequentiality which no one has heard of. With no children to pass these volumes to, what will become of my story?

Miss Walker

I have nothing to say for myself. How can she fill pages when I have nothing to write at all? I try to remember what I have done in the day and the blank page stares back at me. Was I awake at all today? Whatever does she write about? It must be very dull. I try again to create something of a list. A very boring list of basic human achievements. Washed. Dressed. Ate breakfast. Read a letter. Should I write what the letter was about? I cannot really remember, just pleasantries from a friend. I barely remember what I replied. Oh God, my letters must be dull if I cannot remember what I wrote just eight hours ago! I must be the dullest friend. No wonder I do not receive many letters. They dread my replies!

I write down what I had for lunch. Did I enjoy it? What do I like to eat? What would I choose to eat if I could have anything? Sponge cake with sweet frost. Oh, why is my life so dull? At least it was, until I met Miss Lister. Anyone who can fill a diary definitely has a more interesting life than me. But I can never write about her for fear someone should read it.

Miss Lister