Day 2

Today I visited one of those gift shops which sell worry beads, djembe drums, fairy lights, cushions hand-made in India, rainsticks.  There was no incense burning though, or African songs rain-pattering through hidden speakers.  There was a 'Sunday-Girl', as she referred to herself.  A woman really.  Late forties.  Dark sheen of shoulder length hair and Mediterranean eyes with an easy smile.

I usually hate going into these small and unusual gift shops, beacuse I always end up feeling guilty for spending hours smelling the scented candles; admiring their tapestried rugs, imagining a big beautiful rustic house that they would hang in; playing with the rain sticks, imagining the rain dripping down the eaves of a thatched roof, somewhere tropical; then deciding that everything is out of my price range and so walk out empty-handed, but purse-happy.

Today was an exception.  I was preparing to be a writer.  And when I'd passed the shop window last Sunday morning, I'd fallen in love with  hard-backed writing pad, somewhere between A5 and A4 size, hand-sewn, multi-coloured squares and rectangles of material with sequins and beads attached. 

I had to have it.

So, this Sunday, I was on a mission.  Gorgeous, hand-made, exotic notebook, ready and willing to accept my ink, and display the liquid wonders of my unstoppable pourings of poetic masterpieces.

Still, determined writer that I am, I was then faced with a  dilemma; within the shop, on top of the eye-height wooden slat shelves were no less than three of these beauties in different colours: which would be the best buy?  One explored the variations of majestic purples, one highlighted the blues, greens and turquoises of an idyllic holiday, and the other blossomed the pinks of spring.  They all looked glorious.

I picked each one up in turn.  Their spines were all about 3 cm thick, they all carried canvas-thick white and brown speckled pulped paper, they all smelt of the promise of faraway lands and cultures.

I normally match colour to mood.  And I was definitely in a purple mood; the shadow side of pink; that darker edge to life.  There was one particular square that fashioned a silkier material than the others, and boasted golden embroidered, tiny flowers.

But the turquoise one looked so happy and inviting: skinny-dipping warm seas, tequila shots with paper parasols.  And the pink one was so frivolous and fun, like eating a 99 ice-cream whilst walking along the smooth sands of Aberdovey.

How could I possibly decide? 

I may want to write comedy sketches and humorous plays in pink, or heartwarming romantic novels in turquoise, or poems that portrayed the inner psyche of a deranged artist.

They were rather an exorbitant price - could I justify such a purchase?  But a writer must pride herself in her work, honour the privilege of writing, and invite the muse to play amidst beauty.

So, I bought all three. 

My purse now feels guilty and bare.  But my stationery needs were fulfilled.  I couldn't wait to get the three tissue wrapped empty volumes home, to gaze at them, feel the bobble of the beads under my fingers, try not to pick off the sequins, trace the outlines of each segmented garden, feel the satin-sexiness of the back cover, weigh the expectancy of the bound pages in my palms.  And one day, fifty years from now, they'll be sold at auction for thousands of pounds, as the notes and initial drafts of the most famous author ever to grace the land.

Dreams and fantasies: 12

Books to write in: 3

Words written: 0

All is well in the world: perhaps tomorrow I'll write.