SUSAN CALMAN
Our columnist reveals her passion for posh paper
Many of you might fondly remember childhood birthday or Christmas gifts – I know I do. While I adored my Action Man tank, and still dream about a record player with dodgy sound quality (my Madonna singles scratched away like they were being rubbed with sandpaper), my absolute favourite present was something more practical: the Garfield pencil case I was given when I was 10. Because not only did I love Garfield, I also really loved a pencil case.
I loved it because of the world of organisational fun it represented. I transferred everything from my old case to the new, making sure it was all in exactly the right place: pens, pencils, rulers, sharpeners, erasers, Tippex. But what started as a school necessity grew and grew, encompassing practically anything and everything you could write on or with.
You see, the incredible thing about stationery, in all its forms, is how emotional it can be. For me, writing on special paper can elevate my words, make my prose seem much more poetic and turn a thank you note into a sonnet. And, in a strange way, it can be quite magical to use, transporting me to a new place and somehow making my mundane life far more exciting.
For example, I love a beautiful fountain pen and (apologies – this might be too much of an insight into my psyche), when I’m sitting in my smoking jacket of an evening, writing with my Mont Blanc pen, I feel like I’m Hercule Poirot. And believe me, that is a tremendous feeling.
Unfortunately, mine is an expensive hobby. If I’m working in London with time to spare, I always head to the posh stationery shops. I’ll gently touch the packaging and wonder if it’s okay to treat myself. Some people buy new shoes or a bag and try to hide the evidence from their partners. Not me: my wife can never know just how much stationery I buy. I regularly alight from the train with several boxes
When I’m in my smoking jacket, writing with my Mont Blanc pen, I feel like Hercule Poirot
of Bond Street Blue paper hidden inside my coat. Of course, many people share my guilty pleasure. My Facebook feed is full of friends proudly posting pictures of their new paper purchases, in much the same way that other people might post photos of their children. There’s something so luxurious about stationery – and it’s an affordable luxury, because I don’t even need to buy anything to get that happy feeling. Just the precious moments spent staring at aisles of paper and pens, marvelling at the colours and perfect lines, is enough. Sitting at home with a cup of tea, browsing the internet and coveting different coloured ink or an unusual envelope, can elevate a dull Wednesday evening to a party in my house.
And there’s an even more fabulous reason to love paper, because it’s the perfect gift for even the most difficult of friends and family. My Dad is incredibly tricky to buy for, but I know that if I buy him a new box of note cards, he’ll be happy.
It’s a safe bet in even the most panicked of gift-buying trips, because who in the world could hate stationery? Someone who hates joy, that’s who!
It goes without saying that it’s important to acknowledge if you have a problem. And one thing that has become slightly out of control is my notebook collection. I have an excessive number of them, such as the small ones
I carry around for writing to-do lists, and the novelty ones I buy in gift shops, like the Inspector Morse one I bought in Oxford. I have more than 100 of these books – some never even opened. But I do like to look at them and imagine what stories they might eventually contain and where the magic might take me.
The truth is, I’m still that child who loved to organise her pencil case. Except now, instead of Garfield, I have a desk with several drawers needing attention. It may be bigger, but the principle is still the same. And after every reorganisation, I congratulate myself and buy another notebook. Just don’t tell my wife…