Typewriter Love

I have a new-old typewriter! I always thought this was my Mum's because she used to be a secretary, back in the day when girls took dictation amidst a cloud of pipe smoke and got their bums patted. 

But this beautiful gadget actually belonged to my Dad during his years at LSE in the late sixties and early seventies. I wonder what essays or letters he typed with this, holed up in a dank London bedsit, probably also with a pipe angled jauntily from the corner of his mouth.

It comes in a cute brown leather carry case.

I brought this gem back to London with me from a recent trip to Melbourne. I put it in my hand luggage and was stopped in Brunei and Dubai. The cloaked Muslim girls at the x-ray machine giggled at me, "We have never seen this before!", they exclaimed, their smooth round faces beaming. The armed, uniformed men by their sides flared their nostrils and squinted at me. 

It was worth the incredulity. It now sits proudly on a shelf in my studio, eagerly awaiting the replacement ink ribbon I have ordered online. Hurry up Mr. Postman.

I love the rust flecks on the handles

Splendid, indeed.

I wouldn't forgo my MacBook Pro but there is a certain charm about the 

stacks of keys that just can't be beat.

The statement is testament to the changing times.

Typebars: the beauty of mechanics.