The diary of almost everything

When I was a kid, I thought I was brilliant at being sneaky. I honestly believed adults had no idea what I was up to. Looking back, I realize they probably saw right through me; chocolate-covered teeth and all.

After school, we had a ritual: a cup of tea, something sweet, and a little chat about the day. That worked well in primary school, but once I hit my pre-teen years, I started craving a bit of decompression time. Unfortunately, that was also the age my mother decided it would be character-building for me to join a weekly craft course on Monday afternoons.

I’ve never been good at crafting. My brain short-circuits at open-ended creativity. I once sat at a friend’s kitchen table with a lump of clay and absolutely no inspiration. When asked what I was making, I proudly held up the sphere I had rolled between my palms and said, “A tennis ball.” My mother responded with a raised eyebrow, a disapproving sigh, and that silent look that said, “Seriously? This is what you came up with?”

Anyway, this craft course. It wasn’t traumatic. It wasn’t terrible. But it was… gluey. And full of pipe cleaners. And I didn’t want to be there.

But every Monday, I’d get a treat from my mum before she dropped me off: a Chocotoffee. You know the ones,  those dense, chewy blocks of sugar disguised as candy. You can’t just casually eat a Chocotoffee. You need time. You need commitment. You need strong dental insurance.

I never finished it before arriving, but eating it in front of the other kids felt weird. So, naturally, I developed a secret routine: once everyone got busy with their paper mâché and popsicle sticks, I’d politely excuse myself to the toilet, lock the door, and sit there, alone, unwrapping my sticky trophy like I was performing a sacred ritual.

It probably took five minutes to chew through one. I must have emerged with teeth fully coated in chocolate and zero shame. I truly believed no one noticed. I was a shadow. A ninja. A master of stealth and caramel concealment.

In reality? I was probably the most obvious child alive.

I imagine the adults chuckling in the kitchen, watching this kid come back from the bathroom looking guilty and sugar-stunned, sitting down to glue macaroni onto cardboard like nothing happened.

The worst part? I didn’t even like crafting. My mother ended up making most of my school surprises. I contributed by gluing a single sequin and declaring it a collaborative effort.

And yet, I remember it all fondly. The awkwardness. The hiding. The illusion of control. The strange sweetness of that Chocotoffee in a bathroom stall. The way dinner always waited at home afterward, warm and familiar. The TV playing Disney classics. The sense that no matter how ridiculous I felt, the day would end gently.

That’s the thing about childhood: it’s full of these tiny performances. You think you’re being subtle, but you’re a walking loudspeaker of feelings. And that’s kind of beautiful, in its own sticky, obvious way.

– Sophie Quinn