Lizzie is so perfect that she seems a little inhuman so i've tried to give her maybe a not so positive emotion.

A Secret Notebook

I have a little notebook.

Perhaps it is surprising, but I find it hard to imagine that one would not expect it; after all I am rather the odd one out. Everyone seems to have stories to tell, daring escapes; nights sleep rough, interesting tales of travel (much unlike my civilised trip to America). Even my brother seems to have adventures at every turn, and despite the fact I have a household, am deeply in love with my husband and have my darling daughter my heart beats for just a small experience of one. An adventure that is.

I suppose I am rambling a little, and yet just the thought of such interesting escapades send my heart beating like the clipping gallop of a fine racing horse. Goose pimples weave their way down my spine and I can hardly breathe for the tremors of anticipation that take hold of me. My own adventure was one spent as a prisoner in a dank cell, but my parents were there, the dashing heroes saved me. My own wit had not guaranteed my escape; I was but the screeching damsel waiting to be saved. No matter how ladylike people profess me to be I cannot find pleasure in this particular role. Rather it revolts me.

It is in my blood, the need for adrenaline, after all, my mother hardly survived the commoner life without a few tales to tell herself. Dear Frank seems to have embraced the life whole heartedly, and my Darling Johnny secretly, when he thinks I do not hear him, tells our daughter of her namesake, political escapades, attempted murder and all sorts of unsavoury things. Despite the fact I should be squeamish of such antics like a correct female of my birth I find myself listening with as much fervour as the stories themselves are told.

Then it is the point where I must calm myself and play my part, my mother was a famous singer and even though few knew I rather found my talent in the acting arts, I must ask the practical questions and be Lady Lizzie conveyor of the grace expected of me.

I must not seek out my own adventure.

And so I write them down, my imagined stories where I am the hero, the saviour, they are pretend but I do live through them as though the ink is my own blood. No one knows of my habit, after all writing is Cat's forte, not my own.

So I breathe out my own adventure and hide them in my secret notebook that lives in the hidden draw of my jewellery box.

Maybe one day I can tell them to my daughter and she will find as much joy in them as I find in the real stories I collect in the jealous corner of my mind. The corner that yearns to be Cat.

Review me please!