Sticky Stickler Notebooks (for all occasions), are made in the Far North, further than the bears, and the penguins, and have only the towering pines and craggy cliff gulls for company.
The place itself is tucked away in the cleft of a small hill, easily missed in the deep snowdrifts brought on by Deep Winter that leaves one gasping and stamping one’s feet in the chill air, and wishing for a crackling hearth, cozy armchair and a good book!
Retired, gnarled and cranky grandfathers come from the south, and the main room resembles a darkened library, wood paneling from floor to ceiling, broken only by crusty old bookcases, with dilapidated recipe books from all over the globe, their covers lovingly worn, but still snuggled in their brightly hued cloth covers, clasped and caught by bronze snaffles that flip over and lock, like the ancient spell-books of old. Occasionally a moth flits up from a volume, and dusky age permeates the scent of the dizzying flavoured inks dotted about the room, in small stoppered bottles.
Each person sits in his own table, a thickset oaken affair, with sticks of rice-paper, tiny bottles of ink and very fine phoenix quill brushes, poring over their work and separated carefully, since cranky people have a bad habit of starting fights over nothing!
There is a definite hum of activity, literally, as some workers sing along to their own little anthems, or critique their neighbours singing which usually results in more fighting.
When they’re not bellowing about being flat or imbecilic, they sit bent over, some stitching, some delicately painting intricate artworks on the pages, and some nibbling the liquorice strings.
The inks are delicately brushed in fine layers over edible rice-paper, and then stitched into small, pocket-sized notebooks, and bound with strings of liquorice from Holland. Some books get shorter bindings, because their maker missed lunch.or was too absent-minded to notice!
When a book is finished, quite finished, wherein it’s maker has given it the eye, and hummed at it, and looked very solemn for a moment, it is tossed into a medium, six eggs-sized wicker basket.being altogether quite sturdy, and piles up until a stout, wizened old – that is, I mean to say – elderly Grandmother-ish person.
It is she who keeps the peace here, for as she winds her way through the room, lifting baskets, and bringing them to a small shuttered hole in one wall over a desk, wallops any offending loud-mouth over the back of his head with the flat of her hand, as she passes.
Thus, they make their way outside, where passing courier gulls swoop and hook a basket, soaring straight up into the startling blue skies above, carrying their sweet cargo south.