Stationery is Porn

There's something about acquiring new stationery. I find its lure almost irresistable. I know I shouldn't spend the money but I can't help myself. I find myself caressing leather journal covers and fondling virgin-white pages. Ripe with potential but unsullied by my untidy handwriting.

I know that once I acquire a new journal, I won't be able to hold myself back from nestling within the embrace of its pristine cover. Its irresistable to me.

Just last week, I felt drawn once more to "one of those shops" - Whitcoulls. I told myself that I "needed" a new notebook. No one really saw me go through nearly every book on the shelf, weighing the respective merits of the product. Are the lines the right spacing? Is the paper heavy enough? Will the cover protect the pages from wear and tear? Can I get enough on the page? Is the cover tactile? The anticipation of a decision to purchase as much as the decision itself is what I find most rewarding.

This time I was with a friend. I don't think he knew the power of stationery to twist a person's judgment. I managed to hold myself to a purchase that balanced utility with affordability. I was surprised to find that he had succumbed to the wiles of a faux leather journal of much greater cost. But I shouldn't have been. Stationery gets in deep to your soul if you'll let it. He flashed another book at me - a journal and a notebook - this was hard core. I experienced a flush of jealousy - maybe I "needed" a new journal too? Fortunately the journal I already have continues to sing its siren song to me and I felt no need of a replacement.

I write this as a warning. Beware of stationery. It is porn.