It's become a story.

I am a scribbler. I am a notebook addict. Over a year ago, as I settled into my new home and filled it initially with a shocking amount of pebbles and wicker, I pulled all of my notebooks together and divided them into piles — too-used, half-used, wiggle room (i.e. could tear out some pages and staple them together for whatever records I’m keeping and the remaining much-skinnier notebook will have a second chance at life, like it’s had an elective bypass surgery or a routine mastectomy)… and fresh.

The fresh ones towered over the others — although to be fair, the latter were all tatty and deflated from too many months of tote bag travels. Still. I was baffled. That’s when I made a mid-year resolution: no new notebooks. I’d stifle the impulse when I walked by WHSmiths (or whatever it’s called now), and silence that little voice I hear when I chance my luck in TKMaxx — the little demon elf that screeches hopefully, ‘this one will be different!!’

I felt sad I’d let so many innocent notebooks fall by the wayside. Some were gifts, of course, but actually that was worse somehow. I vowed to use them all up, and keep every scrap. I told myself that someday I’d do a little gallery show — very vainly, centred around my scribbles (I promise there’s more to it than that). Or maybe… I mean, definitely not, this is way too huge to aspire to even in my legacy, but hear me out… My dad went to a Bowie exhibition years ago at the V&A, which as you can imagine was a rich mixture of colour, costumes, lightning bolts and glittering artefacts. Even with all of this on display, however, Papa said he was blown away the most by the scrunched up notes and torn pieces of paper covered in his hero’s handwriting — thoughts, lyrics and themes all carefully curated and preserved behind glass for fans to stare at. How would David have felt if he’d been told all that time ago that his rough drafts and half-baked musings would be publicly shown — and not just that, but marvelled at? Okay, maybe that’s a weird dream of mine that I won’t admit to without a long-winded run-up.

…anyway. Before I moved into my place and had that unpacking epiphany, I had a notebook adventure to my favourite seaside city and got a coffee in the relatively new and terribly chic cafe opposite my favourite silver jewellery shop. And now the teeny pages of scribbles have resurfaced unexpectedly.

Read on.

*

31/03/2025.

Everything is beige, except the sunlight on my blue denim skirt. A couple, I assume, in fleeces and jeans and round glasses, kiss outside.

I wonder as I scribble in my tatty old notebook, when did the shape of my ‘w’s change?

…and why must I take a photo? The latte art heart isn’t even that good.

A slight, silver-haired ‘man’ brings an assortment of crockery and cutlery back to the bar and says he should be their waiter. The sweet (beige) barista politely laughs.

I see Chappell Roan totes and daffodil pins on jacket collars, short blonde bobs and glinting gold hoops. Expensive bottles of juice cast colourful shadows across the bland wood and white sinks.

If I didn’t have these tights on, I’d get a tan.

Instagram poetry has recently/finally come under fire. Words in empty space don’t cut it now. And nothing is free to consume any more. Not when everything can be copied and stolen away.

Clumsy handwriting is romantic.

I just found an emergency panty liner stashed in the back pages of this notebook. Thank you, Past Me.

*

Red Pen Books has (with permission) reposted my silly little collection of sentences as a short story on their platform and their DM/asking/posting has reminded me of a few things; keep scribbling, sort the old blog out, and short stories can be anything.

What shall I scribble about next?

Thank you for reading (in all the different forms).

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