I always used to carry a notebook with me. Sometimes I even carried two in my satchel. One was to write down completely random ideas I had for designs or interior plans or for when I noticed unusual colour combinations around town. The second notebook was for the equally random but more mundane thoughts on real life – such as reminding myself to telephone my mother or that I absolutely must remember to wash Guido’s socks. Not surprisingly the first notebook was a lot more fun to read than the second one. However, there has been a worrying development on the note taking front. My books have been unexpectedly closed. I blame my assistant Toby and his obsessive compulsion for the use of post-it-note pads. I now know that these come in an exciting and addictive range of shapes and sizes. Until very recently I’d say I was a post-it-note virgin but now I can’t get enough of them. My satchel is stuffed full of sticky stars and speech bubbles and little perfectly formed clouds to scribble on. I leave a paper trail of my aide memoires throughout London and where ever I go. I think it’s probably costing me a fortune. Yesterday at work I found myself writing down my telephone number onto a post-it-note which just happened to be in the shape of a pair of puckered red lips. I then stuck it to the hairy hand of a burly contactor on a building site. I have to say I am not sure it’s sending the right message professionally as I swear he then called me honey.
These sticky notes are now papering all over the cracks in my private life too. On Monday I stuck one to the soap splashed bathroom mirror which simply read, PLEASE BUFF ME UP TONIGHT. When I got home later Guido told me to take all of my clothes off.
“Let me know whenever you are ready,” he shouted from the kitchen, “and I’ll go fetch a wet sponge.” It wasn’t exactly what I had intended to happen but if you’ve had a hard day at the office I can’t recommend a brisk rub with a foaming loofah highly enough. Especially if you’re not the one doing it.
I also thought post-it-note labelling our underwear drawers with their contents was a terrific idea. White briefs first drawer, white trunks second drawer, mixed boxers third drawer, black socks fourth drawer, sports socks fifth drawer. Each time Guido opened the wardrobe one of the labels would come flying off and as his attention to detail isn’t as acute as mine he’d just stick it back up any old place. Which meant that black socks suddenly became jumpers and mixed boxers confusingly became belts. I’ve noticed it’s taking considerably longer to get dressed in the morning these days.
Today I found a post-it-note in the shape of a sheep stuck to my satchel. It had Guido’s handwriting on it and read, GET A LIFE on it. I thought that was particularly rich coming from someone who had spent the hour before telling me that when poaching, the consistency of a duck egg is always superior to that of a hen. So I left Guido a post-it-note stuck to the pocket of his apron. You can probably imagine what it said.