I bought an ancient typewriter the other day, at an auction. It is old enough to have a cast iron frame, and I got to thinking about all the things that had been typed on it and how much things have changed since it was all new and shiny. Then I got to thinking about my own experiences as I first learned to write, and eventually got promoted to an ink pen when I started at high school. We were on the cusp of changing over to biros, which were still frowned upon. I had a teacher who refused to mark anything written in biro. My hands were always covered in ink and I never did manage to develop a beautiful flowing script, mine was all points and splatters, all different sizes and slants! But I still love seeing handwritten pages, and my heart stills lifts and runs a little faster when a letter arrives in the mailbox. I love communications of any kind, but the knowledge that the envelope received has come directly from the hand of the writer, and traveled all the way from them to me is still something wonderful. The person's handwriting is as individual as they are and the process of forming the thoughts and transferring them to paper is almost magical - a moment translated just for me!
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