Anyone that remotely knows me (or stalks me on social networking sites) will know that I enjoy writing. And more importantly, writing stories. What you may not know is about my earliest stories, some of which have surfaced from the forbidden pit that is the cupboard under my bed, immortalised in a notebook in the messy scrawl of an eight-year-old.
That’s right, eight-year-old. For one of these notebooks, I (and I’ve no idea what possessed me to do so) wrote the date on one of the pages. 1999. It’s possible the earliest ones in there are even from before then, but they’re at least ten years old.
The subject of these stories, all of which were no more than about a dozen A6 pages long, including pictures? Well, it seemed the eight-year-old Sophie had a limited imagination as they all appear to be carbon copies of one another. New girl at school meets a new friend. Some random event (popstars at school/parents marry/etc) means they become best friends.
It’s easy to forget how we were as children. It’s little things like this that mean we can reminisce about our childhood, but also a stark reminder of how the psychology of children has changed over a decade. I know of nine-year-olds with Facebook accounts, their own mobile phone and iPods. The innocence of having nothing to worry about except having a best friend has gone forever.