A new Moleskine notebook arrived through the post a couple of days ago - my original one is slowly filling up, and I realised I would hate to be without one now.
The level of attachment I now experience to such a seemingly trivial thing has been a surprise - I can now understand why people become obsessive over notebooks, diaries, pens, ink and the act of journalling, scrapbooking, and writing. Flicking back through the pages of thoughts, ideas and notes I scribbled over the last couple of years is sometimes bittersweet. A lot has happened.
The little book had been with me from the start of my London adventure. We had no children, and often looked no further ahead than the next week. We arrived late home from work, ate meals at crazy times, listened to loud music, and went out when we pleased. The book’s regular trips on main-line and underground trains had recorded nice people, happy people, angry people, sad people, busy people… cold days, rainy days, hot days… pretty ladies, and grumpy old men.
The first moleskine will now sit on a shelf - perhaps the first of many that will chart our first years of parenthood. When the children are grown up and I am long gone, the books may well be the most direct access they have to their Dad - what he thought about, what he worried about, how he saw the world around him.