I got hooked on notebooks surprisingly late. As a sonnet-writing, black-coffee-drinking, trilby-wearing teenager I should have been burning my way though a Moleskine a day, and I was certainly buying the things, but I was chary of the actual writing bit – perhaps it was the fear that, pen hovering over page, I would realise I had nothing of much import to say. Foolscap could at least be discarded in the event of embarrassment; notebooks last. A couple of years ago, though, I discovered the exquisite pleasure of making that first inky mark, something akin to a footprint in a field of untouched snow.
It’s that time again. Having exhausted my regular supply, I dug deep in a desk drawer and found this: purchased on a family holiday to Japan circa 2003. I present it for your enjoyment.