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dear little diary,

i have tried writing in you rather a lot of times.. yet all i seem to do is a page of scribble or practise my signature or draw rather a lot of hearts, and so i thought i had given it up

and then i thought of my new cat friend arnold, and how i told him he ought to do some writing, and that may make him feel rather better about being whom he was.. which is sometimes quite crabby and not terribly social among lots of things!.. like so many cats are, and it is alright! for i like him anyway. he may be kind sometimes even though he doesn’t know it.. ..and he is awfully clever even for a cat, and we have some very thoughtful conversations!..

though i notice he goes even quieter when i talk of underby and phaedra.. i don’t know why.. perhaps he disapproves of them being quite so awful while i try not to be… or perhaps he thinks it is dangerous to say in babbage that i am the sort of person i believe i may be, somewhat magickal in fact..

like pip really.. even tho’ he never was my father (and neither was phaedra truly my mother, and one may adopt anyone one likes and trusts to be one’s family really, like stormy and doctor kristos), still i may be rather a lot like pip!

for i may cause quite a lot of chaos and destroy good things, or i may help folk and keep them company, whichever is needed of me.. and folks like that, and the things they do, never really vanish either … at least not in folks’ minds, which is prob’ly the most important thing

for i learned by reading all their books, phaedra and underby know all sorts of tricks to keep folk like pip alive, or make them seem dead, so they drift away rather.. perhaps to another plaine or … somewhere else.. and so they never really die, do they?.. and perhaps they may come back again one day, as miss maggie used to say

and so one may never need to feel quite so sad

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