Chitra Ramaswamy: ‘Forget the Wikipedia blackout. I could manage sans Google with my little pocket God guiding me through the year’

Published on Sunday 29 January 2012 11:00

IT’S the start of another year, which can only mean one thing. A new diary.

This is cause for great celebration, like the birth of a baby or the beginning of a relationship. But better, because it’s all about you. A new diary is full of clean, blank pages and possibilities unrealised. Diaries don’t do disappointment because, conveniently, nothing has happened yet. Instead, they do dates. They’re basically portable institutions, providing a serene, leather-bound place that you can always visit when your life is going belly-up. Yes, people, didn’t you know? Diaries are the new churches.

There are rules, of course. A diary should be small, black and stylish – no gimmickry, ring-binding or watercolours here, please. It must be bought mid-way through January so you can spend the rest of the calendar year congratulating yourself on the good fortune of getting it half-price. This also means you get to start as you mean to go on, by writing things into your diary after you’ve done them. This is entirely pointless, a complete waste of time, and a genuine thrill. Rewriting history, I believe it’s called.

A diary, you see, is where you get to be your best self (see what I mean about their divine portent?). Take, for example, the spiritual work of your hair. Who cares that you don’t get it cut every three months? Who cares that brushes whimper when they see you approaching, your own shadow makes you jump because you think Chewbacca is on your tail, and your partner called you a lady chimp the other day (I swear this is true: see 21 January, 3pm, in my Moleskine)? If you’ve written it down, and if it’s accompanied with a nifty, colour-coded sticker, it happened. It’s all about intention, you see.

My diary this year is a doozie. Last time, I opted for a specialist (OK, gimmicky) Calendarium of Deceased Musicians. It was a tad morbid and filled my head with all sorts of dark matter. On this date in 2009, for example, John Martyn died of double pneumonia, and in 1995 drummer Ken Jensen allegedly fell asleep on the couch with a cigarette. For 12 months, I was a death-obsessed dullard, good for nothing but the pub quiz. This is the power of the diary. It can change you.

This year, I’ve kept things classic. My diary includes such essential information as 2012’s international holidays in Luxembourg, the time in the Vanuatu Islands (11 hours ahead) and men’s shirt sizes in Germany. Forget the Wikipedia blackout. I could manage sans Google with my little pocket God guiding me through the year.

But I fear things are getting out of hand. It started with a clever idea to diarise every book I read, every film I watch and every new album I buy over the year. “Just imagine,” I said to C. “Something to cherish, to hand down to the grandchildren one day.” Well, a month in and I’m not sure I want future generations to know I watched Jennifer Aniston and Gerard Butler murder the rom-com in The Bounty Hunter. They would probably prefer some deceased musicians.

And things really spiralled on Sunday (hangover, walk along Water of Leith, Birdsong, spag bol). “Have you noticed I’m a bit gassy today?” I asked C after dinner. A small nod, the kind that can be roughly translated as “hush now, lady chimp”. “I’m thinking of keeping a burp diary,” I go on, undeterred. “Just to see how much I’m doing it. Don’t you think it could be interesting?” And that, people, is how a religion becomes a cult.

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