Why I love stationery

I have lots of notebooks filled with scrawls, shopping lists, attempts to draw, a diary I wrote to my first born whilst gestating (and clearly a little bored). Some show the wear and tear of time, but all have a certain beauty.

From the most eStationery Lovers of the World Unitexpensive Smythson manuscript book gifted on my 30th to the little A6 notebooks I have made for the company; all have a memory attached, a time encapsulated between the sheets.  I dip into them now and again. I have a notebook with a shopping list from the early days of three babies and just seeing the range of consumer products that had to be bought on a weekly basis to keep three little ones alive is extraordinary.  My ‘Moments’ book starts with a note about humming ‘Feeling Groovy’ whilst cooking and my three children spontaneously joining in with the words. My leather bound ‘ideas’ book with terrible illustrations of my first products for 2littleboys and so it goes on.

The jewel in the crown, however, is my teenage diary, A4 Science Exercise books donated by my biology teacher at school on a regular basis, lovingly stuck together to make a weighty tome of teenage angst.

In a scary world, my home being the scariest part of that world, my diary was my sanctuary. Each page filled with lightly written words, angry scrawls and years of the profound and the mundane. The dusty feel of those 7 books stuck together brings back the memories of feeling a need to expel – to write – on paper.  And so in disorder, came order (of sorts).

Stationery Lovers of the World Unite!

When I was 16 I went on a weeks holiday to the Costa del Sol with my parents for New Years.  In a cot at the bottom of their bed, a reluctant companion (to say the least). I would write in my diary every day – hideously aware of the scrutiny I was under in such close proximity to them. It was on New Years Eve that an argument broke out and I ran from the hotel in search of a phone box to call my boyfriend, the imprint of my father’s hand on my arm as I had to started to run and the words I had shouted to my mother ‘I hate you’ singing in my ears; I had never said it out loud before for fear of hurting my mother and reprisals.

I called my boyfriend in tears, then wandered along the beach until the early hours and returned to the room very very quietly.  We three returned to an uneasy alliance for the rest of the holiday.  Ten years later, my mother told me that when I’d left the room that night, she’d wailed to my father that their daughter ‘hated’ her.  He had, I’m told, consoled her and then both had proceeded to search, find and read my diary.

“Ah”. My father had said

“It seems she does”.