Back catalogue

I have a little Moleskine notebook in my handbag, so that  I can look pretentious in public jot down story ideas, observations and thoughts, for future writing projects, or films for work. This is very strictly my *grinds teeth in artistic frenzy* creative notebook, quite distinct from my practical list-book, which bears shopping lists, to-do lists, room measurements for cupboard-buying in Ikea, etc.

(Incidentally, all the notes I ever make are dated. Meticulous date-keeping is one of the more useful habits one keeps as a “journalist”- the word makes me cringe, but I am what I am- and it’s lovely to see, in my practical lists book, that on 22^nd Dec 2007 I was buying chestnuts, stollen and brandy, for example).

Most of my jottings stay in the leathery confines of the notebook, and what's the point of that? So maybe I'll put some on my blog; save myself the bother of thinking of anything new to write.

A short caveat: I confess that I am usually- though not always- inspired to write in the Moleskine when I am slightly drunk. The below was written on a flight from Southampton to Manchester. The gin was medicinal, OK?

17/01/08

You can spot the people who are scared of flying. Their window blind slides up, down, up, down. They can’t decide whether they want to see their certain fate or live in petrified ignorance. Slowly they push it open, then as the plane tilts and the distant lights below tilt terrifyingly out of view, they snap it shut.

Even on a flight they stop the trolley in its tracks: another gin and tonic please, and make it quick.

They’re the people who watch the security talk intently, exasperated at the nonchalance of their newspaper-rustling, ipod-shuffling fellow passengers. As a nervous flyer I can’t help but feel that these nonchalant, besuited types are just fronting. As they crossed their legs in a relaxed manner, I itch to remind them that it would be very difficult to disentangle said legs in the event that they should be crushed beneath crumpling metal.

Now as we hurtle through Manchester’s customary grey blanket of cloud, and the plane lights flash most alarmingly against its clumpy, bumpy layers, I’m wondering whether this notebook will survive the crash, and my last, slightly drunken thoughts be recorded forever.