I'm sorry, it is notebooks

I should put these photos on the notebook blog, but I am too busy, so here they are instead.

Note the uncompromising tone. I can supply it with impatient scowling.

Fortunately, my children are used to this level of Saturday morning indifference where the notebooks are concerned.

Unfortunately, they have a sleepover chum who may never call on us again, since I already traumatised them with my neglectful parenting. The young innocent was expecting warm home-made chocolate brioche for breakfast, clearly the standard set by the last upstaging parent on this sleepover circuit. But what the juvenile failed to consider is that round here they get Grit, and I have a craft stall coming up. I only grunt from deep within the darkened chambers of my leather lair the morning instruction, Bread is in the bin. Sort it out yourself.

Now, to more important matters.

Walk Me. Notebook for all of us who need to pound earth and soil. Supplied with sticks, stick-collecting bag, a snatch of Robert Frost, and a couple of sticks carved by Squirrel. She has 34,000 of them on the floor while she learns to whittle, so I'm pinching them. (The thefts will probably be discovered when her inventory and database system fails to match her inspection report.)

Evolve Me. Notebook for evolutionary biologists. Not as niche a market as you might think.

Goth Me Out. One of the many enjoyable consequences of stitching paper and leather into arty creations is how much I actually learn about the world while I'm doing it. Really, who knew about all those subcultures of the misery-fuelled gothic experience? Good preparatory research. It will up my credibility no end. When the Gritlets drag home the sulky-pouty Nigel I can inquire on the darkwave recipe he blends for his mascara without bursting into laughter.

Now, back to Unearth Me, notebook for archaeologists. (Or I could turn it to that kink in the market for people who like to bury themselves alive.)