Bag balm and duct tape [antikvár]

Introduction DEAR READER, When I told one of my colleagues I was keeping a diary, he said, "What a dumb thing to do." His comment, which, to someone who doesn't understand doctors, might sound rude, did not upset me. I knew he was thinking about the kind of diary that his sister kept, one for recording her most intimate thoughts so that when she was grown up, she could read through it and remember what it was like being young. Hers was the kind of diary that had a little lock and was hidden someplace in her room where nobody could find it—except her brother, who sneaked into her bedroom, found the diary, jimmied it open, and read it, stopping only when he got to the page that said, "Brother, you better stop reading my diary or you are going to be sorry! And I mean it!" This is not that kind of diary—the kind one keeps for one's own personal pleasure. In fact, it wasn't even my idea to write a diary. 1