I've mentioned the Remington portable typewriter before. Acquired in my teens, it hammered out millions of words during my weekly newspaper days, trailed through most of my RAF service, helped me write early novels, crossed the Atlantic, wrote hundreds of letters home during our six years in Pennsylvania, returned to the UK, assisted with a couple more novels and was finally retired when word-processing simplified text revision and eliminated the irritation of carbons.
It is visible proof of a life spent writing; hard to imagine it elsewhere, assuming anyone wanted it. VR suggested it became a monument on a small table (made by my great-grandfather) in the dining room. More recently VR approved the nearby attachment of a brass coat-hook from which hangs my Pentax ME-50 film-based camera, also overtaken by technological progress.
They're on show because they are well-made. That’s all. Other kit does the work better.
A BRO BASH We’ll be seeing my brother, Sir Hugh, soon. He lives near the Lake District and I suggested visiting the pub at the head of Wasdale, a blind LD valley. The name of the nearby lake, Wastwater, hints at the area’s austere grandeur. I recall the pub as a scowling sort of place with stone slab floors. Looked at the pub’s website and quickly withdrew the suggestion. Gentrification has descended like particles in the emollient voice of Huw Edwards.
WIP Second Hand (36,203 words)
“A New Zealand pinot, if you’ve got it.”
“We have,” said Moses, speaking carefully. “And you may certainly have it. But would you prefer a pinot from the people who made pinot famous.”
“Put him out of his misery, Francine,” said Nneoma.”He’s dying to syphon Volnay down your throat. I wonder why he bothers with wine from any other countries.”