It was the weeks running up to Christmas in London and nobody could remember the last sunny day. Dark clouds loomed in the gloomy sky holding off the distant threat of rain that lingered somewhere over the horizon. It seemed the sun had forsaken this town and the winter was here to stay. Failing to relinquish it's grip of depression and chilling gloom. It seemed a lifetime ago since a single flower had bloomed, the sun all but a distant memory.
It was a day for which Sundays were created. Where one could shut off the alarm, keep the curtains tightly drawn and while away the first few hours of the day doing as little as possible. Preferably from the comfort of their bed or curled up on the couch in front of the television. Watching images of other people going about their hapless, mundane lives, or reading about it in the Sunday newspaper. Yes, this day was perfect for a Sunday. Unfortunately for Jack it was a Monday. Twenty-four hours late, he had truly missed the boat on that one. He grumbled angrily to himself as he hit the snooze button on his alarm. Missing it altogether and spilling his newly poured mug of tea kindly left for him by Sarah. Fortunately it's boiling contents missed him altogether. Unfortunately for him it didn't miss his diary, left open as it was every day on the relevant page displaying the day's agenda. This was not a good start to an already gloomy day and it was about to get a whole lot worse. Jack muttered some expletives under his breath as he fumbled around in the dark for the light switch so he could fully assess the situation. Flicking the small bedside lamp on he finally found the snooze button, once again silencing the room as he glanced down at the mess he had made.
                'Thanks for the tea Sarah' he shouted out as he dabbed at the carpet furiously with a tissue. After a few seconds of cluttering downstairs in the kitchen Sarah came to the bottom of the stairs.
                'Hope it's okay baby, I'm afraid we're out of sugar so I had to make it without' she called out as she made her way back up the stairs.
                'Oh not to worry Sars, I don't think the carpet minded' he replied as he laughed to himself. The humour not lost on him. He continued soaking up the sugarless liquid from the carpet as his wife re-entered the bedroom, getting back into bed beside him.
                'So how's the birthday boy today?' she asked sleepily, peering over the side of the bed to see what her husband was struggling with. Yes. Today was not only a Monday and not a Sunday, one of the coldest and wettest miserable days in recent weeks. Not a good start by his own admission. It was also his thirtieth birthday. One he had approached with great trepidation and dread. Now it was upon him and boy did he know it.
                'Shit, the diary's ruined!' Jack cursed as he anxiously flicked through the sodden pages of his diary, desperately trying to salvage something but struggling to make any sense at all of the page's contents. All the words now just inconceivable ink blots all running into one another creating a black and blue pattern across the lined pages. To most this would come as a minor annoyance. A bit of a set-back and inconvenience but by no means the end of the world. But Jack was not most people and to him this was far from the truth. His busy schedule and day to day life was kept in order by this diary. One that he followed religiously to the letter, as if it was the bible. As if his very life depended on it. But unaware to Jack his life did depend on it and he had great reason to dread this day, his thirtieth birthday. For this was no ordinary day.
                Life was not always so complicated for Jack. At least not that he could remember. But that was his problem, he couldn't remember. For most of us our past can be delved into like one might dip into their pocket to retrieve a coin. Pluck a memory from our past and relive it in our minds. But this was a luxury not afforded to Jack. His past only spanned back as far as his twenty-sixth birthday. Before that, nothing. His mind was as blurred as the pages of his diary that now lay soaked in his trembling hands. For Jack, his life started when he woke up that cold November morning four years ago to find himself in a strange bed, in a strange room, next to an unfamiliar sleeping woman and a life that he had no recollection of. It may as well have belonged to someone else. That was not entirely true though. One thing did seem strangely familiar. Like a scent long forgotten but wrapped in memories. It was a well-used, brown leather diary that lay opened next to him at the bedside table. Upon further inspection he found the handwriting familiar, certain it was his own although he had no memory of what his handwriting even looked like. He picked up the diary, rubbing the cover carefully with his hand getting a feel for the leather. Even the feel felt somewhat familiar. But why, he couldn't say. He placed the small book close to his nose and breathed in, taking in the smell of the worn leather. Even that smelled familiar to him and he was certain this book was his.   He opened the book and turned it to the page that had lay open to him when he first awoke, the first few words catching his eye.