Hour two alone in the best stationery department in Europe and it may already be dark outside. It’s a place where they lock notebooks behinds bars in case you touch them (they are not expensive, just glamorous, it being Paris). They have pop up shops just for notebooks here. This summer the shop comes from Berlin and the notebooks each come in a plastic sleeve that smells like Barbie did when I was young and I am inhaling, sitting alone again on the floor in Cork negotiating alternative lives for Barbie and Ken than the ones that came on the box.
I am not alone exactly. The notebook pressed to my face and my long yoga-style inhale has been noticed and I have attracted what appears to be a personal notebook shopper. He is showing me A5 notebooks in shades of blue (*VOILA* “Comme Klein par example?” he suggests accusingly and closes his eyes and nods solemnly with a church-like approval when I prove that I know he means Yves and not Calvin).
Now he is asserting that moleskine and their notebooks should do a #brexit out of Paris in favour of smaller suppliers (I do not interrupt him) and I am now legally high on the heady mix of pink wine and Barbie’s pink, plastic-the-Presentation-Brothers-wouldn’t her perfume and he is putting a notebook with a huge “E” in a fluorescent orange bag and off I go.