That secret personal book

It's deja vu.

Today I lost count of how many times it rained, stopped, then rained and stopped again, with the sky looking like it’s completely unburdened, only to be releasing torrents again later.

It was exactly like last week. Except that I was supposed to be out of town, disengaged from reality and embracing unreality.

The floods in Malaysia and the incessant rain were the culprits, for we decided, rationally, that cycling through flooded grounds - not to mention being soaking wet - was not our cup of tea.

Suddenly my entire weekend was freed up. I had every intention to make the weekend pass languidly, and the thought of maddening crowds was all that is needed to dispel any thoughts of venturing downtown. If this wasn't enough, the intermittent downpours should do it.

Still I spent the Saturday afternoon eating and chatting in a presumably atas restaurant in a famed mall. I was in good company, received a wonderful christmas gift, engaged in funny conversations and was witness to my two friends' sometimes conflicting recollections of the past that they shared. Or rather they couldn't agree to remember a date or place or some other details. I was quite amused.

It turned out that XY could remember what happened in the past because she kept a personal book in which she recorded such details as where a meeting took place, who were involved, what had happened. So by way of defence sometimes, she would say But that was what i wrote.

More interesting for me was the realisation that many of us have our little secret personal book that we kept whilst growing up. It's usually a small notebok - could be fanciful or just plain - that is kept in the most secret of locations, even though it's in our own home alright, lest it falls into the hands of siblings or, worse, parents.

Not that the book, or diary, contains evidence of unspeakable crimes or inconvenient truths, but it usually harbours the thoughts of a growing adolescent, which are variously dumb, trivial, funny perhaps - in hindsight, of course - and embarrassing. But most important, they bear the imprints of the heady years of growing up, when matters such as friendship, schoolwork, partying and petty quarrels with friends and families were all that preoccupy our lives.

Do I have my own personal secret book? I think I have one, which I used it infrequently, only during those periods when I have much angst. It is now hidden in the most inconspicuous corner of one of the cupboards, and for now I am content to let it be that way. I don't want to cringe reading what I wrote when I was an immature 14 or 15 year-old. Not to mention having to bear the atrocious standard of English in my writings. That was the unspeakable crime.