I'm a girl. This journal is almost 10 years old, when I started it, I called it Almost 21. Before that, I had a journal called Soap on a domain that no longer exists. Some things have changed since then, some things haven't. I always wanted to be a writer. I live out that dream here.
I asked, somewhat amazed, as we drove past powdered white fields an hour into the drive.
"It's frost." Boy informed me. "Haven't you ever seen frost before?"
"Well... no. Not this much anyway. It's so pretty!"
"You spend way too much time in the city."
It was incredible. Just like pictures of landscapes in Christmas card photos. I wanted to take photos, but had foolishly left the camera in my big bag, which was in the boot. Laziness possessed, as one might imagine would be the case after four hours of sleep, and so, regrettably, there are no photos.
Boy's big plan was to leave at 6am, so we wouldn't waste a whole day just driving and doing nothing. This meant we had to wake up at 5 to get ready, load the car and wonder if we had forgotten anything. This made going to the party the night before seem like a silly idea (at least I didn't have a hangover), although I am convinced that it wouldn't have made a difference had I gone to bed at 8pm the previous night, or 1am in the morning like I did - I still would not be happily awake at 5. The Devil's Hour (this, to me, includes every hour before 10am).
There was a shuffling in the back seat, and then, a gasp.
"Why are the fields so white?" A puzzled voice, which belonged to my half-asleep sister, enquired.
"It's frost!" I proudly informed her.
Amused, Boy took the opportunity to remind us, again, that we spent way too much time in the city.
Soon after, the frosted fields were swallowed by the monstrous fog that followed us through most of the journey, and the back seat party resumed its silent, sleeping position - something I very much wanted to do, but I felt guilty about leaving Boy to be the only one awake. He told me it was okay, just before I drifted off.
When I opened my eyes again, we were driving through a small town.
"Where are we?" Yawn. Stretch.
"Huntly."
"Ahh, so this is where Huntly is. I know sexy twins that live here. Well, one is quite sexy, his brother's just... I don't know. Weird. Skinny looking."
That was 5 years ago, back in the day of school, and Science Camp. Two weeks living in a hostel with young science and technology enthusiasts from all over the country, when we thought David Porter was the most gorgeous guy to grace our planet, and that we were cool because once we fell over on the landing laughing over nothing and Dave had been concerned because he thought we had been laughing at him, and because he had let us tie orange bows in his hair.
How young we were.
Looking out the window, at the little shops and factories, I realised that were I to ever see Dave Porter again, I probably wouldn't think that he was gorgeous, or sexy, or anything special.
It was a strange feeling. Once upon a time, it might have induced sadness, but right then and there, there was nothing that could have made me sad.
We were on our way. For 6 days, it would be me, and Boy (and a sister and friend for a couple, but they would be deserting us on Tuesday), a double bed in a little train carriage in a little town, and snow.
And that was all I needed.