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Pauline Bryce Diary

January 1st

It’s the same every morning, I open my eyes, see the zig-zag crack in the ceiling and the brown stain round the window and I feel sick inside. But today it’s like I’m suffocating. I roll over, see the date on my alarm clock and realise why. I can’t take another year of this. I just can’t. So I go downstairs and ask Mum for a loan, not much, just a few hundred pounds to get me to London and keep me going till I find a job. She won’t even listen, keeps saying she doesn’t have that kind of money – which is a lie. Then Ron piles in with his ‘stick with college, young lady, get your qualifications’, blah blah. No point telling him there’s another world out there. If I get a job in London – property, advertising, something like that – I won’t need qualifications. I can work my way up. And when I start my own business I won’t have to put up with Ron Bryce or anyone else telling me what to do. Robson’s as bad. All that fuss about a few packs of Silk Cut and a copy of OK!. I’d go mad without my mags. So now I just run a razor blade down the pages I want and shove them down the lining of my coat. It’s not enough though. I need the real thing. Sitting up here in this shitty little room, reading about other people’s houses, cars and lives – it’s killing me. Screwing me up so tight I’m just about ready to snap.