Hello. My name is Debbie, and I have a problem. A compulsion. An all-consuming, bank-balance draining, undying, death defying love of … stationery. Gah, why couldn’t it have been something normal, like sex and drugs and rock ‘n’ roll?
I can’t remember when it started. Back when I trained as a journalist, perhaps, and I first got my hands on a spiral-bound reporter’s notebook. Y’know, the cheap stuff.
From then on, the habit began to (pun alert!) ‘spiral’ out of control. I progressed to mid-level fixes; drawn, like a wasp to a jam jar, to the stationery aisles of supermarkets, and to shady High Street dealers such as Ryman and Paperchase. Inside these dens of iniquity, these palaces of paper, I found myself craving sparkly, pretty notebooks with butterflies on the covers, or ones with inspirational quotes written inside, and others with motivational titles on the front telling me to Seize the Day, or to Write Some Words. And, oh, the sheer pleasure of finding one with a pocket at the back to put bits of paper in!
Nothing comes close to the unbridled joy of discovering a paper pocket at the back of a notebook. Really, nothing.
Soon, I craved the hard (backed) stuff and found a dealer who supplied premium quality goods. The pure, uncut, they-even-come-with-matching-ribbons, delight that is the Leuchtturm 1917. Ach, the range of colours (the Nordic Blue is to die for), the choice of lined or dotted or squared or plain pages, the index, and of course, the matching ribbons. As an added extra, you can even buy an attachable pen loop. Ecstasy.
Oh, the bliss. The rapture. The rush of pleasure through the veins, the pupil dilation, the dry mouth, the sweaty palms one experiences when finding a new notebook to add to the collection.
But, you see, my problem has grown so out of control that I now have a large collection of notebooks which are only partially written in, and others, rotting in a cupboard, that haven’t been written in at all and will probably never experience daylight ever again. I start one, all excited to be filling those pages so full of promise, but then the next shiny one in Nordic Blue comes along and the previous one is abandoned to the stationery abyss. The secret stash.
And then there are those that are just too beautiful to be sullied with the rubbish that emanates from my pen. The crème de la crème. The top of the tree.
Take, for example, the two hand-crafted notebooks I bought from a most charming little shop called Il Prato, in Venice. They’re far too perfect to taint with anything other than unicorn tears, quite frankly. Heck, if Shakespeare himself came back from the dead, found himself in Northwich struck with the muse and in need of some parchment to write upon, verily begging me to hand over my Venetians, I’d tell him to do one. No one gets to defile my Italian quaderni.
So, there you have it. My dirty little secret is out, aired in public for ridicule and contempt. Please, don’t judge me too harshly. And, that’s just the notebooks. Don’t get me started on the pens…