Ink

I was reading an excellent article in the Sunday paper the other day (not necessarily on Sunday, as it takes me a good few days to get through it, and I find myself still finishing the crossword on Saturday morning, even though it is meant to be the quick crossword; so I don't even begin the cryptic: life is just too short) on the subject of handwriting. In particular, how it is a uniquely rich and expressive form of communication, and yet is in danger of disappearing under the digital deluge. And how we should make more of an effort to apply our handwriting whenever we can, and not to let it slip away.

All of which I sympathise with; but then I look sadly at the shabby scrawl that my handwriting has now become, as it deteriorates year by year. But perhaps that itself is the result of being out of practice: it seems that I only pick up a pen to scribble notes at work or lists of things to do at home; always scribbling in a hurry, rather than taking the time to try and make it look more presentable, a truer reflection of who I am and what I want to say. And then things looks so much neater when typed on a computer screen: I take pleasure in formatting text smartly on the screen, choosing my favourite fonts, repeatedly editting till I am happy with the flow and rhythm of the words. To write things out once seems a terrible restriction; and to cross things out and write them again seems unbearably messy.

But I keep trying. The right implement helps: I am not all that keen on ballpoints, but rely when at work on pencils (because they are soft and grey and readily erased) or some ultra fine liquid ink rollerball thing (because it is ultra fine, and inky), and have even dug out my old fountain pen at home. And that is itself telling: the fountain pen that I received for 10 years service at a previous employer; which I fill from an actual bottle of ink, a rare item in the modern world. And is it a coincidence that the colour I have chosen for the headings in this blog is a shade of inky blue-black?