The conversation was important so I wrote it down, taking copious notes in one of my green, hard backed journals. For days now I have spent frustrated hours on fruitless searches - over shelves, through drawers and rummaging in my mind – until I even doubt the green book. Maybe they were on loose leaves of lined paper? Fretting fills up neural pathways, overtakes my silent time, and now I cannot hold all the words in my head. They are falling away like grains of sand. The one I want begins with ‘dis’. I’m sure it does, but then I was sure about the green book.