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It was an H, a letter I had previously thought unremarkable but whose brilliance I saw clearly for the first time that day: its upright arms exhorting heaven, its sturdy cross-brace stiffened against all ills. The next day, Mavis allowed me to strike my first letter. “You must first learn to become at one with the keyboard.” So great was the conviction with which she spoke these words that I longed for that blessed union to come as quickly as could be - a week, a day, an hour!
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“Typing begins in the mind, and the heart,” Mavis told me, and I could feel in my own heart that it was true. Yet so enchanting a tutor was Mavis that I uttered not one word of protest. The entirety of the first day was spent merely positioning my fingers over the keyboard I do not believe I struck a single key. Mavis’ method was exacting, but effective. The days that followed were perhaps the happiest of my (admittedly brief) life to date. Still less can I express the emotions that Mavis stirred within me: here was a woman who was, yes, undoubtedly beautiful, but also one whose demeanour suggested great accomplishment: frankly, but without pride or hubris.
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Truth be told, I had expected no more than a software disc - with an illustrated manual, if I was fortunate. Reader, for all that I fancy myself a writer I am lost for words to express how astonished I was at this turn of events. There was an angel on my doorstep, clad in a business-like straight suit whose lines nonetheless promised much. To my surprise, however, what met my eyes was not a surly courier, but a vision in blue. I bounded down the stairs to greet the messenger, no doubt carrying in his hand the smile-emblazoned box in which all my hopes were vested. Would it never arrive? Would my dream of fluent touch-typing go unfulfilled? I slept restlessly, had nightmarish visions of producing my first novel one painful character at a time. It was unlike Amazon to be so tardy, even if I had selected Super Saver Delivery. I was young, too young to acquaint myself with the heady world of stenographers and secretaries but already I somehow knew, as if by whispers carried on the wind, that Mavis was finest typing tutor to be had.Įagerly, I placed my order on .uk, thanks to my newly minted debit card, and waited for my parcel to arrive. But who would teach me to walk this path? There was only one possible guide. Last year, I turned sixteen, and resolved that the time had come for me to put childish tapping aside in favour of a man’s typing.
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There was magic in the clack-clack of the printer heads on the platen: it was the sound of words being made. I pecked at its keys, finger by finger, even though the ribbon had long since dehydrated beyond use and the spools turned fitfully, if at all. When I was a little older, my father unearthed - more or less literally - an ancient Remington Standard from the cellar, where it had been abandoned by some former resident.
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My parents laughed that one day I would be a writer: so great was my desire that I was producing pages of perfectly typeset gibberish before I could properly walk. When I was a little boy, my fingers would dance merrily – if somewhat randomly – across the wipe-clean plastic keyboard of My First Computer.