Crack that spine every which way

The feeling of painfully surfacing in the real world in a busy coffee house, or on the Tube, or in fact even in your own bed, after being immersed in a captivating book is the same feeling as being dragged from a deep sleep. You suddenly feel slightly unsure of where you are, the time of day, who you are, or when and how you managed to consume a full bag of Doritos.

This isn't about my love of reading, however. Although I'm sure at some point I'll be writing a love letter to this raunchy pastime of mine.

Instead, as my aversion to cold weather has massively impaired the amount of wandering around London I've been doing, it's about books themselves.

Before I go any further let me settle the book versus Kindle debate once and for all. I've had conversations with a few people about this, and most seem to fall down on one side or the other. I know of one person in particular who resents being given actual books if they can be bought on a Kindle. When debating with him, I found myself responding with an embarrassingly soppy homage to libraries in defence of books. I know others who refuse to go anywhere near a Kindle, for fear it'll be cheating on their analogue friends. I then find myself becoming an ambassador for Amazon, seemingly hell bent on earning as much commission from sales as possible.

I have a Kindle. I adore it. But this doesn't mean it's either/or. It can be both.

Now, I know a number of people who like to make sure the spines of their books remain unbroken. They carefully keep their books in pristine condition, making sure they never bend the covers too far and always use an appropriate bookmark to mark their place. They contort themselves into obscene positions to peer at the words rather than risk damaging the pages. My best friend once texted me purely to share the pain she was experiencing watching the woman sat opposite her on the Tube bending her book. 

But I love books that have been passed around, bent, torn, been dropped in baths and dried on a radiator, have questionable stains, illegible scribbles in the margins, and carefully worded personal messages inside the front cover. 

These dear 'book preserver' friends of mine look at me in horror as I gleefully twist my paperbacks into positions the Spanish Inquisitors could have learnt a thing or two from, and dog ear my pages. If I borrow one of their books, from the look of fear in their eyes as they reluctantly hand it over you'd think I was about to throw the pages onto a bonfire and commit the ultimate sacrilege in setting alight to them. My response to my best friend's text about the book-abuser on the Tube? I threatened to break into her flat in the dead of night and break all the spines of the books on her shelves. For her own good, of course. Not to satisfy a slight sadistic streak I appear to harbour.

I can't help it. It's similar to how I feel about notebooks. I have a slightly inappropriate emotional/nostalgic attachment to books. There's an enjoyment in abusing them or picking up a book that's seen a few years and a few owners and a few tea spillages. It seems cruel to not personalise the pages with your experience of reading the contents. It's that inextricable connection with where you were when you read the story, who you were with, or which holiday you were on, how the story made you feel. And when you re-read the book it's remembering how a particular mark was made, or coming across bits of sand, or an old receipt that you hurriedly used as a bookmark.

But it's not just abusing your own books, but coming across books that have been abused by others. I once found myself spending over an hour in an area of Camden Stables browsing the shelves of a second-hand book shop. I guiltily left with a bag full of books, including two that had been signed by the author, for the cost of buying one new hardback. I recently bought an 1980s edition of George Orwell's Down and Out in London and Paris from eBay that cost £2 and has a beautiful crease down the front cover. I've ruined books that I've given as gifts by writing a message inside to the new owner, making the book just that little bit more personal. Again, it's that knowledge that the object you're holding has a history, that someone else has held the pages and read the words, or could do in the future. The Kindle is fantastic for consuming just the story. The preserved book is a way of having the words there, in your hands. The abused paperback, however, is a way of truly immersing yourself in the journey of the book and the experience of the story.

So there you have it. The simple joy of holding and abusing books, whether they're yours or someone else's.

And as I've spend most of this railing on about books as opposed to reading, here's a lovely little video about Girls Who Read to readdress the balance.

Allow me a moment of indulgence...

I have a confession to make: the unadulterated joy I get from a fresh ink cartridge in a fountain pen.

In fact, not only a fresh ink cartridge in a fountain pen, but also using that fountain pen in a notebook with ridiculously flamboyant binding and thin-ruled lines (always thin-ruled. Never, ever wide-ruled).

Oh yes ladies and gents, after the previous thoughtful blogpost about not isolating yourself from the world around you by sticking your headphones in, this one is about the highly important and newsworthy topic of pens and notebooks. But then again, this is a blog about embracing the small pleasures in life, so bear with me.

I can try to describe exactly what this fascination with ink and paper is, but the words won't do it justice — either you get it or you don't. A bit like hereditary baldness.

And you know who you are if you're a member of this depraved club, and we have the ability to identify ourselves to each other with nought more than a loving sidewards glance towards and the stroke of a desired notebook. Do you guiltily have a drawer full of unused notebooks, that you convinced yourself you'd find a use for whilst handing over your money? Or perhaps they're hidden on your shelves in amongst your paperbacks. Or stacked in a corner of your room somewhere. Do you find yourself unconsciously gravitating towards the stationery section of a book shop, or The Pen Shop? Do you die a little inside if left with no other option than to use a pen that doesn't quite feel right? Or if the ink bleeds like a spider's web along the paper? If the first page of a virgin notebook doesn't look perfect once you've finally started writing, do you carefully rip it from the seams so you can start again? (I've ingeniously solved this eternal dilemma by leaving the problematic first page blank, and therefore unsullied). If the answer is a whispered, wide-eyed 'yes' to any of these questions, then I hate to break it to you but you're one of us. Embrace it. Admit it. Nurture it.

I'm not someone who rails against the lost art of handwriting, who refuses to go anywhere near a computer and laments the (exaggerated) reports of the death of the paperback. I've been known to lovingly paw my iPhone, I unashamedly adore my Kindle and I'm the first to admit my handwriting is ludicrously minuscule, becoming entirely illegible even to me if anything but the greatest care is taken whilst writing.

But there's something deeply, deeply satisfying about turning through the pages of a notebook or sketchbook that's been carefully inscribed with someone's handwriting using black ink (and again, always black. Never, ever blue. At a push then maybe sepia, but only if the colour of the paper is a complementary cream). It's as though the content is an irrelevant by-product of the form; it could be a catalogue of someone's sock collection or an original manuscript of Alice's Adventures in Wonderland for all I care.

Maybe it's the inescapable link with the person whose handwriting fills the pages. If you're someone who loves notebooks and pens, then you'll know that feeling of looking back over what you've written and feeling undoubtedly and inescapably that it's you on those pages. When reading something that someone else has handwritten it's just so very personal — the unique tics in their scrawl, the particular way they loop their g's, whether it's neatly and painstakingly drawn out or scribbled as though they couldn't get it down quick enough. It's that same feeling you get when you come across a 15th century text in a museum; the feeling that the person who made the marks on the paper is there in the room with you, looking over your shoulder. It's something that you inevitably lose through typed words printed out onto A4 sheets of white paper or seen on a screen.

And this isn't a phenomenon reserved solely for women, nor a particular generation. I've had long conversations with various gentlemen about fountain pens, comparing nib sizes (bigger isn't always necessarily better folks) and I know of a young man, who shall rename nameless, who has recently bought at least two notebooks after squealing joyously at the look and colour of their bindings (you, yes you. You know who you are). With no hesitation I can think of at least seven people that I've had in-depth conversations with about the joys of notebooks and pens.

And so I make no apologies for this purely self-indulgent musing, and I leave you with two things. The first is a brilliant quote from the novel One Day by David Nicholls:

"She drinks pints of coffee and writes little observations and ideas for stories with her best fountain pen on the linen-white pages of expensive notebooks. Sometimes, when it's going badly, she wonders if what she believes to be love of the written word is really just a fetish for stationery. The true writer, the born writer, will scribble words on scraps of litter, the back of bus tickets, on the wall of the cell. Emma is lost on anything other less than 120gsm."

And the second is a photo of a page from one of my notebooks. *satisfied sigh*

Headphones out, boys

It would appear that at some point over my lifetime I have unknowingly acquired a sign that says, "I shall humour you if you decide to talk at me." People seem to think I'm excluded from that cardinal rule of London: Never talk to people you don't know. On the Tube, in the street, in museums — I catch someone's eye and that's it; I find myself being engaged in a conversation without having the heart to disentangle myself.

Which is why I'm also a steadfast proponent of that other blissful cardinal rule: Headphones in, boys. (As one of my brothers pointed out, and as grammar geeks will appreciate, the use of the comma for this rule is crucial). Going about your daily business to your own soundtrack aside, it sends a message to all those would-be rule breakers lurking out there: "Do not engage me in conversation. I am far too busy pretending I'm in a montage from Hustle to smile and nod as you tell me about how you've given up drinking for yoga."

True story.

... The yoga bit.

... Not the Hustle part.

Actually let me backtrack. This is why I was a steadfast proponent of 'Headphones in, boys'.

I've had two experiences over the last month or so that have made me decide to embrace the random conversations and experiences you can have by not stubbornly listening to Chris Cornell with hands shoved deep in your coat pockets, walking with a purpose and keeping eyes locked on an indeterminate point ahead of you. Or being engrossed in a book if you're sat somewhere. Or 'sleeping' on the Tube. All of which are sound strategies by the way.

Experience number one: Bernie Spain Gardens, South Bank London
Think of London and what do you think of? No doubt a city, full of people, noise, cars, etc etc etc. Typical urban savannah: a world of vice and culture at your coffee-stained fingertips.

Boys and girls, I lay at your feet for consideration: Bernie Spain Gardens.

I've walked past this little spot on South Bank, right next to the OXO Tower, many a time. Invariably I'm with someone or if on my own have my headphones in.

Wandering from Tower Bridge, west along the South side of the river one evening after work, I decided to pull the headphones out and turn off the music.

I was suddenly struck by something I don't think I'd ever experienced in London before. I could hear the Thames washing up against the bank of the river below. I couldn't hear any traffic. The people around me were all strolling. It doesn't last for long as you keep walking west, which makes it that much more striking. Sat on a bench looking down the River feeling peaceful and content, I realised that if I'd had my headphones in I'd have walked straight through and missed it.

So experience number one: London isn't just a city of blaring noise. Take the headphones out and have a listen whilst you're walking around. You may just be pleasantly surprised.

Experience number two: The Cafe at Foyles Bookstore, Charing Cross Road
Anyone who hasn't been here, put down whatever you're doing now, pick your preferred mode of transport and go. Now. Unless you're doing something incredibly important. Like surgery. In which case you shouldn't be reading this in the first place. You awful, awful person.

A few weeks back I'd camped out in The Cafe at Foyles to read through a friend's novel for them. It's the perfect place for this sort of thing: you can stay there for a whole day without being disturbed having bought nothing but a mug of tea, there's free wifi and a nice little buzz. Plus you're just ten long strides away from book paradise. Of course, the headphones were in to save being distracted.

Novel finished (very, very good by the way) and two hours to waste before meeting another friend for dinner. At some point during the afternoon the two men sat opposite me, who don't know each other, have struck up a lively conversation. Curious, the headphones come out.

One is endorsing the legalisation of all drugs. The other is gamely probing the holes in his argument. The conversation keeps going off on tangents about anything and everything: society, politics, the booze culture in Britain. It's too good to not join in.

The two hours fly by in a blur of lively debate, each of us respecting the others' opinion and not being afraid to put forward what we actually think, protected by the anonymity of being nameless strangers. As we become aware of the buzz having died down around us, I realise it's fast approaching 9 in the evening and I'm due to meet my friend in St Paul's soon. I say my goodbyes and pack up.

So experience number two: Embrace conversations with strangers in coffee shops, or in fact anywhere else. Despite the fear that you're going to end up talking to someone who's two wheels short of a bicycle, you may actually end up enjoying it. And looking back, the majority of random conversations I've had on the Tube, in museums, in coffee shops, trains, coaches and a multitude of other places have all been interesting. No-one's tried to kidnap me, sell me anything, or save my soul.

So a new lesson for l'art de vivre: Headphones out, boys.

The best laid plans of rhinestone cowboys and yoga bods

The Engima code, the da Vinci code and the female G-spot all have nothing - and I mean nothing - on the seatbelt mechanism on a McLaren pram.

My carefully crafted list of “I resolve to…” for 2012 has temporarily been thrown out the window as I’ve been drafted in to look after a two and a half-year old whilst her mother, father and newly born sister are all in hospital. My intention of spending my second week of holiday becoming an expert in l’art de vivre, la dolce vita and becoming a fully-fledged flaneur has been cruelly replaced by succumbing to the whims of a surprisingly articulate toddler.

End of Day One: Two sessions of yoga for toddlers, one tantrum, one vomit-inducing nappy change, and the recruitment of lots of family members to help.

End of Day Two: Why don’t toddlers come with an off switch? <too tired for witticisms>

End of Day Three: Playing a 2.5 year old Beastie Boys and Run DMC videos on YouTube isn’t ethically immoral if it distracts them; a McClaren seatbelt mechanism has nothing on a child's car seat; and yoga for toddlers is frickin’ hard work. No amount of cutesy jungle storytelling can disguise the fact you’re being twisted into positions that should be reserved exclusively for those who choose to practice karma sutra.

Having carried out the night shift for three nights and had the toddler all to myself for two mornings, I’ve come to the conclusion that the idea of unconditional love for your own flesh and blood is a myth. After caving in to her incessant demands for Hot Chip’s I Feel Better, I find myself bouncing around the kitchen with my arms in the air in a bid to keep the toddler amused - any dignity having been thrown out with a worrying number of nappies.

I suddenly have a newfound sympathy for my parents. How long exactly is the gap between a kid becoming self-aware and the moment they wish to disown their parents? And is there any way of speeding up the process, or perhaps missing it all together? Is this what boarding school is for? And is it considered bad parenting to ship your kids off because you refuse to listen to Glen Campbell’s Rhinestone Cowboy for the fifth time in a row? I mean really, Glen Campbell! Later, as she plays on her toy phone by saying authoritatively that she’s “leaving a message for Glen Campbell, asking for a number”, I wonder on which ill-fated night did her father decide it would be a good idea to expose his daughter to this song? How desperate do you need to be? How much yoga must you have endured?!

Now that I’m safely home, as are my cousins and their new baby, I can revisit my “I resolve to…” list and make a start on embracing the small things in life, distraction, and random city wanderings and musings. And also hope that no more distractions such as childcare come my way. And also pray that the new baby has the sense to put her father straight the second he looks like he’s desperate enough to play her Glen Campbell…