Georgie was used to her mother’s fads. For days on end she would be running round the park, or eating foods with unpronounceable names, or making ‘useful’ things from old cardboard.
Soon, it was as if the wild enthusiasm had never existed. The only evidence was crammed into the cupboard under the stairs. An exercise bike was hidden under half-sewn curtains. On top lay a single wellington boot, decorated with pictures cut from a magazine.
So it was no surprise when Georgie’s mother got hooked a podcast about tidying up. The house rang with the recorded voice of a smug woman nagging everyone to chuck out anything that wasn’t really needed, and soon the garden was littered with stuff destined for the charity shop or the dump.
Georgie was given the job of sorting through the books. She had a lovely time, rediscovering old favourites, and hiding them to make sure they wouldn’t get thrown away. Then, down the back of the bookshelf, she came across an unfamiliar volume. It was pretty tatty, but its leather binding must once have been smart. There was no title on the outside. She opened it up. The pages were filled with tiny handwriting. It must have been somebody’s diary. She flicked through. The last few pages were blank. Then she noticed the heading on the final entry: 23rd March. It didn’t say which year, but it was no wonder that the date caught Georgie’s eye - 23rd March was her birthday. That was why she started reading at end of the book, and the last few words changed everything, forever. They said, “...