Hello Sweethearts, you miserable lot forsaking me. How am I supposed to keep going without fuel? Never mind: A weed is a plant in the wrong place and, if lucky, either a cat will nip you or you’ll die unnoticed.
This minute I have surprised myself. I do this periodically by clearing up my desk. My god, here is Ms Perfection personified, or so I was told a long time ago, and I find a handwritten note of a telephone number. Unfortunately there is no name with it. That’s the optimist in me. I will write down anything – on hundreds of little bits of paper – deluding myself that I will know one week on what they mean. I truly love myself on that note alone.
I also have so many notebooks I can’t find anything I noted. But when I do I am surprised. For the amateur psychologists among you this can only mean one thing: Before my first sibling was born, and in between being entertained by my enchanting grandparents, my mother and my uncles and their then respective fiancees, I entertained myself. Old habits die hard.
I love my handwriting. I love it I love it I love it. When I see my handwritten notes (Staedtler Noris HB2 with a rubber tip in case I want to erase something) I am reminded that I exist.
Yes, you can tell can’t you: I have just tidied my desk. Which amounts to tidying AWAY myself. Whenever my desk is tidy I feel I am my father’s daughter. He is anal about his desk. It’s quite awful really. He used to call, probably still does, his waste paper basket (huge) “File No 13″. Naturally, it was always full. To be emptied promptly. I don’t know how my mother lives with him.
Yes, so everything is in order. Post it notes stacked, pencils sharpened, staplers refilled. All I need now is some action.