Which misguided frog was it who dared to say, long ago, that il n’y a pas de lettres ennuyeuses? Can it have been Dumas? It was, at all events, twaddle. Memoirs and biographies and, heaven knows, the daily posts swarm with such letters, as we all know to our cost. However, had the statement concerned diaries, it would have been a different and more accurate kettle of fish. Almost any diary is a fascination, even the purely schoolboy ones (‘Got up late. Didn’t wash. Had breakfast’, and so on right through to the end of an actionpacked day: ‘Had my supper. Did my teeth. Squeezed my blackheads. Went to bed’).

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