On those brilliant days when there isn't a cloud, and the sun is burning in the sky, if you look up between the leaves of the trees, layered one atop another in scattered disturbance, like sheets of paper sprawling across a desk, shuffled by a breeze, I can see not green, not brown, not any colour, but reflections of pure light, made white.
Bark fascinates me, with its crumples, folds, knots, and old torn skin. Every tree is different, like the whorls, loops, scars from your fingerprints.
One of the consequences of having a Knicker Drawer Note Book casually placed on your dressing table, on the bedroom floor, or by a wooden chest, is the fantastic theatre they bring to this moment of your room. Catch a thrilling sight of one with a glimpse of gold net showing from a wrapped sueded cover, and it would be hard to resist temptation. You know that, inside, they promise you a little world, made in miniature. Tell me, who could resist peeking?
Don't leave them lying about, that's my advice. Keep your secrets safely stowed away, for leisurely self-indulgence.
Green! Woods, trees, forests, mustn't forget the green.
Rain, dark, secret woodland places. Black leather, transparent papers, skeleton leaves.
Choice in brown.
This delightful foresty-themed notebook, inspired by fond thoughts of poetic sunlit dapplings on the saplings. Fine suede feels tremulous to the hand, then all white and gold inside with sparkly bits and its own fragilities. Folding semi-transparent paper-cloth creates secret, hidden places.
Doesn't, of course, include itchy sore insect bites on the bum, the bramble scratch over the left eye, the muddy bit where I fell over and the undignified slide into the ditch next to the fox shit.