Little Black Book

I have in my pocket, a little black book.

It’s nothing special, a tiny book that can fit well onto the palm of my hand. And it contains nothing – plain paper, sixty pages or so. And it’s not even of elite make, like Moleskin (Jolyn has a negative reaction to that remark, mostly because she bought it for me).

I chanced upon the little book in one of those novelty shops that offered such items of attraction – they are adorably cute, smart, and trendy.

Perhaps that is the point – customers can’t get enough of the shiny stuff, so they buy and bring them home.

But they could not find a purpose for the new books and pens, and what a terrible waste it would be to use them for ordinary means. So they leave them little shinies on the shelf, because they are too incredibly cute/smart/trendy to be put into a use that will not diminishish their cute/smart/trendiness.

So on the shelf they stayed – pretty little things, meant for a higher purpose, but always looked over for their plainer, more down to earth siblings.

Eventually, tired and worn out, they would at last be chosen, but for the most modest of tasks, as rough paper or scrap pads. They end their lives as common writing material. Alas, the curse of being too good-looking of stationery.

I am one of those customers yesterday that took one of the pretty books home. I too am faced with the problem of what use the little book could be good for.

Jolyn calls it my little black book – fitting name, but what content suits the title? It would simply not do to have the book as a common notepad, as I have done with several others. What words should be enscribed onto the little pages to differentiate it from the others that ended there lives a plain existance? I have no answer that night.

Along came this afternoon, when I chanced upon another bookshop holding a sale of self-help books. I have always been attracted to books of this variety, as I believe I should never stop learning. But then there were simply too much knowledge, too many things to remember, for me to use them properly.

Suddenly an idea hit me.

Maybe the little book need not suffer the same fate after all.

It would contain information that would render it ageless and valuable, and would be useful no matter where I am and what I am doing.

Of course, why did I forget? The books should contain information – valuable, timeless information, that can be retrieved at a moment’s notice.

But the best book is the one that is with you. It should be available anywhere I go and contain all the information I require.

And what better book to have all that information than the little black book?

Suddenly the book is freed of its dim future and stands proudly before the rest. It shall be the one book to contain a summary of all the books that I have read. And it will be read again and again, its contents fitting of the name to call it.

And so my little black book realises its higher purpose, and I am relieved of one less promising notebook to find a meaning for.