The art of the "doodle"

Almost ten years ago, I bought my husband a leather bound journal because, for a while, he thought he wanted all the grief that being a writer brings.  He never once cracked the back, so eventually, in a moment of deep need, I did.   In the years that followed I'd filled it with menus and notes, drawings and groceries lists, wine labels and the thin strips of linen paper the clerk at Jo Malone's gave to me after she'd sprayed them with Blue Agave and Cacao and 154.  They kept falling out and I kept insisting they stay within the creamy yellow pages to remind me of that day, a particularly nice one.
A few weeks ago, I lost it.  I mourned and moved on to the point that I'm on the lookout for another, but I hope somewhere, someone is enjoying that coffee stained book bound in caramel colored leather.
Maybe it will end up here: