I’ve always loved typewriters. Its the closest I will ever get to fulfilling my ambition to become Jessica Fletcher. I found one once, broken and beautiful, rusty gold, with keys that descended deep into inky bowels. My fingers would be like Popeye’s after only a haiku…
Can’t actually use them – the tippex required to deal with my wayward typing would be the toxic straw that broke the world. And think of the poor forests. I needed a podium beside my librarians ladder and Jumpin Jack Flash giant toothbrush, but I don’t have the space.
I can still dream though. Found this site – the Grand central reserve of typewriters. For this image alone I love it.
I deal in typewriters sonny, any kind ever bin, ever will be, aint nothing I aint got. I’m Mr T. What you gotta say about it?
Check it out..