Don't judge me, I know you've heard it all before.
Stationery was never a phase for me; I never got over the simple beauty of the 99p biro, or the twenty-quid Lamy pen. I suppose what enthralls me is the pen's simple ability to create, to pen stories; memories, feelings, emotion. Once, I was sat in my room on a languid Summer's day, staring into an empty shoe box that I had refashioned into a pen storer. To look at it was to view a chaotic masterpiece- thick chunky pink highlighters against thin, brittle pencils, the smell of lead eminating from its cardboard. Bored by the humdrum of your average Summer day, I began to draw out each pen and pencil, scribbling a small portion of its contents onto a blank sheet of A4 paper that lay in front of me, on my desk. I worked for hours, each careful addition a tribute to the beautiful writing object which had crafted it. Slowly, surely, hours passed, and over time the random words, phrases, cartoons and patterns formed a background of dashing colours, exciting the eyes. Once this was done, I carefully stuck down a sheet of sticky-back-plastic, the Primary school kind, which bubbled and snagged as I lay it down, creating a new shiny skin for my magnum opus. Content and sitting back, I proceeded to write, in black marker pen the large looping words which had sprouted in my head, compelled to make my anarchic piece of A4 shine forth a philosophical truth, I wrote what I had known from the day I had turned thirteen, and, grimacing within, I added the question mark- 'What do teenagers know about love?'