(NB: content in this entry is quite probably clichéd/pretentious (because nothing else I ever write on here is clichéd or pretentious, right?). But I go by the theory that most of the time, if something is clichéd, that is because it is actually true. Also it is my birthday so I can say and do what I want.)

So today I am twenty! Those terrible, treacherous teenage years are officially behind me and, while my next birthday is considered by society as the more momentous one, I still think today is pretty important really. TWENTY YEARS. There have been times, in my angstier phases, where I honestly thought I wouldn't get this far. Luckily, seems I am in fact a pretty emotionally-balanced individual, so I have not felt that low in a very, very long time. In fact, I would say that right now is the most happy in myself that I have ever been. Not only am I surrounded by a whole bunch of fantastic friends, but I am satisfied with who I am as a person- obviously there are occasional hiccups, but I'm capable of working those out now and moving on. In the end, I believe that being able to do that for yourself, and not being dependent on other people for feelings of validation as a human being, are what make you successful. Which I would think is pretty obvious, really.

But yes, I am hugely lucky to know a lot of people who all make me happy in their own particular ways. From the best friends I have known for years, to the people I only chat to occasionally in lectures, by way of good new friends I've made over the past year and a bit- you are all fantastic, and help brighten my days. (Not knowing who actually reads this makes it easier to be so soppy, it's not my natural state...) And in light of a couple of 'recent developments', special mention must go not only to one particular boy who makes me extremely happy, but to another who has always been a brilliant friend and all-round awesome person despite what has happened between us in the past.

Really, you are all SUPER. Thank you all for existing!

From when I was six or seven, my mum began buying me a subscription to Aquila, a magazine for bright/gifted children recommended to her by a teacher at school. Although I'd grown out of it before the recommended 8-13 years readership was up, when I was younger I loved it; I did all the puzzles (even the maths ones, sometimes), sent in my wobbly pictures and, crucially, sent an ad in to the Pen Friends Club when my mother deemed me responsible enough to send letters off to strangers. Sadly I don't know where the particular issue containing my ad is- we might not have kept it- but I know that it went something like this:

'Hello! My name is Alice and I am seven years old. I like reading, writing, drawing, swimming, playing the piano and annoying my big brother. I would like to write to a boy or a girl who is 7-9 years old.'

Apparently these 3 sentences (or ones like them) ring true for a lot of 7-9 year olds, because I got somewhere between 15-20 letters back from various kids from all over the country clamouring to be my friend. And, true to my hoarding nature, I have kept every single letter from every single kid over in one big shoebox by my bed. That's a lot of letters.

It's so weird going through them again- names I'd completely forgotten suddenly flash up again with little slivers of memory attached. Nicola H., with terribly messy handwriting and a pet dalmation (photos enclosed, DO NOT BEND). David Russell, precocious even by my standards, with his love of Limp Bizkit and happy gabble about N64 games (which I more than matched in my own letters, don't you worry.) Bethany Howell, pleasant but dull, whom I deliberately stopped writing to out of laziness- but who nevertheless sent me a Christmas card that year, with her address carefully written inside so I could be sure to write back. I'm not sure if I did or not. Jenny, Esther, Joseph, Sheree, Alice, Cressida... There really are a lot of letters. Most of them, particularly the early ones, are pretty boring to read really- 'Me and my mum and dad went on holiday to France, it was warm and we swam in the sea. I ate a pineapple, it was really nice'- but they're still strangely engrossing. It makes me wonder what I put in my own letters. I'm trying to remember what I wanted to do and to be when I was that age- a teacher, maybe? Or a writer? Something I'm definitely not on the road to doing or being now, that at least I'm sure about.

Different correspondences lasted different lengths of time; some never got beyond one or two letters, others lasted a few years, and one is still on-going after 13 years. In nearly all cases, it was they and not me who broke off the communication (sorry Bethany!), so maybe they don't wonder as much about my life as I do about theirs at this moment. Maybe they don't remember me at all- I wouldn't blame them, I doubt my letters made the most stimulating of reading material. But just in case one of you has indeed stumbled upon this, do let me know what became of you, OK? Here is what became of me:

My name is still Alice, but I am nineteen years old now (twenty on Monday). I still like reading, writing and drawing, though I no longer like swimming much (I hate the smell of chlorine) and my piano playing pretty much went tits up. I don't get to annoy my big brother as much as I used to, as he grew up and got married and got a house somewhere else with his wife, but I still do so when I can manage it. I am in my second year of studying Biomedical Science at the University of Sheffield, which is fun, but a lot of work. I don't know what I want to do with my life, and not everything is brilliant all the time, but then it never can be really, can it? Right now at least, I am safe and I am happy, and I'm not that worried about anything (although I probably should be). I hope you've been as lucky in your life as I have in mine.