At night I often write in a notebook, continuing on from wherever I left off previously on my laptop, or the laptop I’ve borrowed while dear old Rory is in for repairs. (And there’s good news on that front, for they think they can fix it.)
While I was away sailing, I filled about half of an A5 Refill Pad. I’ve now finished it, or at least, I’ve only got a page or two left and it’s hardly worth starting a new chapter there. So I have begun a new notebook, a boring exercise book, with one of my school-style Berol pens that take me back to when I was learning to write joined up, and last night I wrote.
It was perhaps half past midnight when I stopped, put my spare pens on the shelf, clicked off the lamp and settled down to sleep. But wait: there was something I did before that, something guaranteed to give me whispery, word-filled dreams.
The notebook. Where did I put it?
The new Berol pen on the shelf. The two old ones a little further along so I didn’t get confused when I woke up. And my current pen, and the new notebook that until now was so clean and didn’t have a single bent corner? They both went under my pillow.
While I was away sailing, there was a lost property box. Somehow my pillowcase got separated from my pillow, and it turned up in the box. When they held up items, the only things to distinguish this Bhs cream pillowcase from the others were the inkspots on the bottom, from where I’d slept with a fountain pen under my pillow.
And with the words so close to my ears, it’s no wonder I dream of stories…