The notebook was defaced. Actually it is a relief: I can’t control who writes or doesn’t write in it, or what they say. Judging by the graffiti, I can’t control what I write in it either.
WHORE
The word is written in thick green marker pen, over my last entry, that I scrawled on a train again, pissed and pissed off. I didn’t say anything interesting. ‘Whore’ is the most interesting word on that page. Someone refused to take the notebook away, but still managed to read it, my words and his words, that we had so carefully written, respectful of the exercise and its rules. This guy came in and pissed all over our precious exercise. And then he disappeared, off into the London night, never it seems to be heard from again.
I haven’t had that deafening silence as the outcome of a date for a long time. It is unnerving in its contrast with the pre-date virtual chatter and flirting. And it is more annoying because it involved him gaining access to some personal material.
I wrote some rubbish on the train coming home, I clutched the notebook to my chest. I read the proper, spidery handwriting entries of the last contributor and felt strangely moved. I missed my stop. I woke the next morning with a graze on my elbow, a metaphorical wound. I called myself a whore for all to see.
But the good thing is it has freed me up. I am not little miss muffet sat on her tuffet anymore. I’m just a whore that wants to meet some other whores, and read what they have to say. I wonder who will be next.
Quiet Riot Girl 
I need to get rid of it or I will fill it up with my own ramblings. I have been writing in it again. Seeing as the rules are out the window. And still there seems to be my impetus to be writing to the original recipient of the notebook. I guess we started the conversation between us, and as yet, nobody else has joined in! I’d offer to give it back to him to have another go himself, but I am not in the mood for a second refusal in a row. Third if you count our lady friend who won’t touch this hot potato with a barge pole!