I first discovered Smythson, a beautiful stationers on Bond Street in London's
West End during a weekend break in the city with Mum in early 1995.
It's been a favourite store ever since.
When I moved to London in 1997, I bought a Smythson's hardback note book for Mum.
Last week, I saw it on her bedside table and had a look inside.
She'd written in perhaps a third of the book.
Nothing out of the ordinary.
Jottings, you might call them,
of things that caught her eye or made her think.
But sight of them gave me quite a turn,
because I have a notebook from Smythson
for that exact same purpose.
It would appear that I am my mother's daughter.