ALEXANDRA SHULMAN'S NOTEBOOK: Why I won't discard my keeper of memories
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When I was the editor of Vogue, my engagements were listed in a large, paper diary by my PA and it sat on her desk. It was only when I left the job seven years ago that for the first time in decades I kept my own diary, and every year since I have bought a wildly expensive candy-coloured leather-bound Smythson page-a-day desk diary.
This January, I have downgraded to a less expensive brand, with the whole week contained on a page, and less room for my to-do lists, on the basis that all this information can be kept on my computer and my phone. Though I don’t really need a paper diary, I like to have one and even this small change in style has discombobulated me.
During the Vogue days, my diaries were crammed with fashion show dates, half-hourly meetings, lunches, drinks appointments, shop openings. There wasn’t a bare inch of paper. At home, we had another paper diary, kept in the kitchen for our domestic life – children’s play dates, sleepovers, babysitting evenings, school plays and phone numbers of the mums of my son’s friends, etc.
‘Coco flea treatment’, ‘Pick up 3.15 Cody’ and ‘Sam cricket 5-6’ scribbled in the one at home. ‘Lunch Le Caprice Helen Taylor’, ‘Serpentine Gallery Anniversary Party’ and ‘4.30 coverline meeting’ in the other. One day; two halves of my life.