Ianto Jones, Personal log
Jack found my diary. I don't write too many incriminating things in there, but I certainly write enough. Now I have no idea how much he's read and how much he knows. There are more than a few things I would much rather have told him myself and at the right time. He seemed rather gleeful when I took it back from his office and ribbed me about my optimism involving tape measures. He's not yet complained about my personal number of centimeters, and he'd better not, or else it's going to get used in some way to remind him just how much I've got. Which he, actually, would no doubt enjoy. Hmm. At any rate I need to sort my thoughts and have a talk with him about what he may or may not have read and make sure that, if he hadn't read it, I'm ready for him to know.
With the two days we've lost, I really wonder both why it was out and why I didn't write anything in it over those two days. Jack has been looking into what may have happened and last I heard he doesn't want any of us digging to deeply into it. I've noted these things in my diary and the entries are back on track. Whatever it was, it merited Owen to bring Tosh flowers with a nice note attached. And it was Owen- Tosh analyzed the handwriting, herself. Twice. No one is talking about it, but not knowing is driving us a bit mad. With Jack suffering the most of all. He can't stand not knowing things. I hope we are all safe from whatever-it-was and that forgetting was our choice and not something else's.