Moleskine
The level of attachment I experience to such a seemingly trivial thing is a surpriseI 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 in the distant past is sometimes bittersweet. A lot has happened. These little books have been with me through so many adventures now, and chart memories from a time that often seems alien.
A time before children, when we often looked no further 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 recorded nice people, happy people, angry people, sad people, busy people cold days, rainy days, hot days pretty ladies, and grumpy old men.
The moleskine notebooks now sit on a shelfa growing row of black spines that chart our first years of parenthood, bad days at work, happy birthdays, christmases, and late night thoughts. When the children are grown up and I am long gone, the books may well be the most direct access they have to their Dadwhat he thought about, what he worried about, how he saw the world around him.