SALES of diaries are booming. The Bridget Jones effect is hitting the high street with record numbers of sales expected this year - the film broke all box office records when it opened a couple of weeks ago.

I for one - an extremely judgmental filmgoer who is rarely satisfied - loved it, mostly because (like most clumsy, disorganised females lacking in confidence) I identified with Bridget Jones.

Seeing her diary up close, with its derogatory remarks about hunky Mark Darcy hastily scrawled across the page followed by, in capital letters, the words 'I HATE HIM', must have struck a chord with 99 per cent of the female population. Or, indeed, with anyone of either sex who has ever been in the market for love.

Take this entry from my own diary: "Saw KF today in the dinner queue. He didn't look - I HATE HIM."

A diary not of late, you understand. If there are any men with those initials working in the EP building, don't worry, it's not you I'm lusting after over the cauliflower cheese and mash.

The year on the front of my little green Letts is 1976. I was 15. It highlights the emotional roller coaster that is the life of a teenager in love. The following day's entry reads: "Saw KF crossing the yard to the sixth form block. He looked gorgeous. He put some snow down Sarah M's wellies. HE HATES ME. I LOVE HIM."

And the next: "Sharon B told KF I want to go out with him. I HATE HER."

Diaries make riveting reading, with many being turned into books. I could not put Joe Orton's Diary down. Then there's Anne Frank, Samuel Pepys - which gives a fascinating insight into 17th century life - and the 19th century fictitious Diary Of A Nobody about Mr Pooter, a man who lives in suburbia and commutes to a city office.

Even mundane entries hold a fascination for people, although if I were to document my life now, I can't see many publishers snapping at my heels over the likes of: "Children woke me up. Did last night's dishes. Made the children breakfast. Watched Tweenies. Went to the park. Made lunch. Went to the park. Made tea. Bathed the children. Put them to bed. Watched The Bill. Ate pizza and chips. Had a bath. Went to bed."

My earlier diaries were much more juicy. I kept one throughout my teens, yet 1976 is the sole survivor. I wouldn't worry if, like Bridget Jones's, someone else happened to read it. Because, simply by revealing how old I was, I could justify the mad rantings. But, had I continued to record my daily musings to this day, and it fell into hands other than my own, I'd be fraught to say the least. So, I believe, would most people.

All that hate and loathing - you'd be seen as a real threat to certain individuals.

I'd die if I thought the red leather five-year volume - detailing my life from 16 onwards - ended up in the wrong hands. It locked with a key, but getting into it wasn't exactly a challenge if you had a hair grip to hand. I was so worried, I burned it and haven't kept one since. Shame, because diaries are quite therapeutic.

After seeing the film, I'm quite tempted to start another.

As for KF. He moved to Cumbria and I got over him very quickly. I wonder about him, though - he was very good looking.

Keith Forster, if you're out there and single, I'm thinking of buying a diary and need a love interest.