I grew up in Nottingham. I had chalked pavements, scruffy knees, and the garden path leading to 'the backs', where the world of neighbourhood kids, without grown-ups, raised in me wonders and fears, risks and rewards, friendships and fallings out.
Most days were forgettable. But not Saturdays, when the trip to the ABC Cinema Minor's Club and the Library were the fixed points in the week. Books became a huge visual part of my world.
To my mother's delight, I went on to English Literature, York, Oxford, then writing for this purpose or for that. I moved into teaching and then back to my first love. Art.
A design course at Northampton introduced me to the idea of creating a book as a sensory experience. I watched how people interacted with my hand-made book and listened. What would they pour into a sensory book, if it were theirs?
Years later, I was making these hand-sized note books compulsively for friends, family, anyone who wanted one. Theirs to fill. Then someone suggested, 'Why don't you sell them?'
My mother kept papers, in her knicker drawer, where she knew they were safe. Wholesome sayings. A poem that made her laugh. Written mementos. An address. A folded piece of paper with drawings by my brother of three bad-tempered squirrels drawn one afternoon as he sat in A&E.
So I became Knicker Drawer Note Books. The place to hold treasures, that only you know are treasures.
Now, I create the books and you inspire me. I hope you fill these books with all the human that you can bring. The wondering, intriguing, fearful, comforting, reassuring, imaginative, indulgent, self-pitying, philosophising, angry, slightly bonkers, thoughtful, ambitious you.
