In 1973 br I woke up br br at 6.30. br br It was the 11th August br & a Saturday. br br The Curragh Plains br were clothed in mist br br myriad of cobwebs br adorned the furze. br br The morning was a jewel br waiting to be found. br br Despite the fact br that I was very much br br myself br that day br br I remember br none of it. br br It only exists br as a diary entry br br (that is forgotten) br that I eclipse br br with writing br this br br a palimpsest of texts br br this writing now br obliterating the diary entry. br br I erase me br with me. br br I am amused at br my 17 year old self br br bored out of his br (our) mind br br studying for exams br reading IVANHOE br br (I can’t remember ever br reading it) br br a jumble of selves br a jumble of texts br br the me of now unable to understand the me of then br even disliking who I am br (or rather was) br br knowing that if we had to meet br we wouldn’t get on. br br No not even br friends. br br (“How could I have ever been him! ”) br I think to myself. br br (“What’s become of me! ”) br he probably wonders. br br The only thing br we could have agreed on br br was the beauty br of the furze br br and what br it meant br br to us. br br In two minds br about the rest of us.