A fear I had long held—and one of many writers I’m sure—came to pass, as I lost one of my notebooks in a Paris bar. The overwhelming feeling afterwards was one of vulnerability, thinking of someone intruding on your thoughts in their crudest form (semantically as well as personally). Then a sense of frustration, at my own stupidity, but also for the loss of memories, the reason in the first place I keep a notebook on me. However, these thoughts were short-lived as one realises the insignificance of such an object in the universal day-to-day. I began to think that, indeed, it might have been picked up by a passing customer after me, but its pages are ones of mystery and intrigue, rather than an object of derision.
Yet, perhaps this is all easier to say knowing that the notebook was hardly full in comparison to some of my others.