I bought a new notebook yesterday. It has a picture of a meerkat on the cover. I’d seen it in the same shop a few weeks earlier, but decided not to buy it as while I love meerkats I didn’t really need another notebook. After seeing it again on sale and £6 cheaper than the recommended retail price, I thought “what the heck” and bought one. I know I’ll use it (indeed I already have planning out this very blog entry).
I like notebooks. I have amassed quite a lot of them over the years. Some were gifts. Some were souvenirs from places I’d been to. Others came as part of stationery sets. One of the first notebooks I ever got had Superted on the front of it. I also owned ones with Danger Mouse and Dogtanian and the three Muskehounds on them (the greatest cartoons ever, in my opinion). Some of them I bought while in Woolworths or Partners simply because they had pretty covers.
Most of them are filled with stories I’d written (or half wrote, in most cases) and random ramblings and rantings about life and stuff (mostly from the ones I got in my teenage years), as well as a couple filled with homework/revision notes and essay drafts. I never let anyone else read what I wrote in them. They were my thoughts, my ideas, my views, purely for my eyes only. The thought of anyone stumbling upon them and reading them would fill me with dread. Even now, I would be a bit embarrassed if anyone read anything I’d written in one of them.
Today, many of my old ones are languishing somewhere in the house, in boxes with other stuff from my childhood and teenage years. I often think that I will dig them out and having a read of them one day. If I did, I’d probably be laughing at a lot of the things I’d written. There would very likely be a lot of stuff that would have me cringing a little too. There might even be a few ideas for stories to be found in them. My younger self would probably be embarrassed, even horrified that her older self might want to go back to them. I would just want to read, relive and enjoy the memories all over again.