Belgian waffle

Goedemiddag, dear readers. I have returned from the Belgian leg of the Ink Quest with many tales to tell.

The trip began badly. The soon-to-be-discontinued Air Wales decided to delay my flight by more than an hour, and the turbulence during take-off was like none that I've ever felt. I really did think that I was going to die, and the thought that I might shuffle off this mortal coil without ever owning a bottle of Omas Sepia ink was somewhat hard to handle. But we made it to Brussels just in time for me to catch a very late train to Ghent. Arriving at the hotel in the early hours of the morning, though, was a decidedly surreal affair. The door to the establishment was boarded up (I later discovered that some troublesome youths had gone on the rampage), and a small sign directed guests around to the back of the building, where an equally small sign invited new arrivals to press an intercom button. A voice eventually answered. I gave my name, and the woman replied 'Ah yes, from Casablanca'. I tried to say 'No, Cardiff', but was simply told to wait where I was. After about five minutes, a man appeared, wearing a dressing gown and slippers. 'Please come with me through the garage', he said, whisking me into the bowels of the earth and then a precariously small lift (or 'elevator', dear American readers) that took me up to my room on the fifth floor. A Murakami moment.

I used the lunch breaks during the conference, together with yesterday morning, to indulge in the Ink Quest, of course. First port of call was Caron, a small shop that sells tobacco, leather goods, and writing instruments. I'm still not sure whether it was tobacco or the ink that made me a little light-headed. Or maybe it was simply being able to see in glass cabinets the kinds of pens that you rarely, if ever, see on display in the UK. I've never seen a Filcao pen in real life before, for instance, even if the shop, sadly, only stocked the miniature models. I did, however, finally manage to get my hands on some Sailor ink. Sailor products are very poorly represented in the UK, so it was a true novelty to see a selection of their pens and, above all, their inks up close. Perhaps predictably, I chose a bottle of the brown, which I've been using for the first time this afternoon. It's quite nuanced (not unlike Visconti Brown, in fact), quite mysterious, and I'll tell you more about the pen in which I've been using it in the next paragraph...

While Caron was intoxicatingly pleasant, the true highlight of the Ink Quest was a shop (I'd go so far as to call it a heavenly palace) called Timmermans. This glorious little establishment has, I understand, been providing the good people of Ghent with writing instruments and materials since the mid-nineteenth century (1845, if I remember correctly). Although the place itself is fairly small, it's packed with a heart-stopping selection of pens, inks, and related paraphernalia. I saw pens that I've only ever dreamed about or seen in catalogues, and I still don't quite know how I managed to stop myself from splashing out 330 euros on a beautiful Omas, and 470-something euros on a glistening Pelikan. I couldn't come away with nothing, though, so I ended up buying a lovely blue Pilot Custom 74, which was much more reasonable. (A gentleman never reveals how much he has spent on a pen, of course.)

As the extremely helpful sales assistant was putting my acquisition into its box, I boldly sprang the question of questions. 'Do you', I risked, 'stock Omas Sepia ink?' 'Hmm, maybe', she replied, opening one of the shop's many beautiful wooden drawers. Was the Ink Quest about to come to an end, I wondered? Was the Great Brown Whale finally in my sights? Could the adoration of the mystic ink finally be consummated?

Of course not. I was soon informed that there were no Omas inks whatever in stock at the moment. And I'm sure that I was given a curious 'What-makes-you-think-you-can-handle-the-great-Moby-Ink?' look at the same time. Was there a secret note pinned to the inside of the drawer, along with a photograph of me ('Do not sell Omas Sepia ink to this man')? Was the 'Hmm, maybe' all for dramatic effect? Are Inkterpol tracking my every move? And so the Ink Quest continues...

One final note, as an update to the post of 14 March: I returned from my trip to find a cheque from the DVLA waiting for me. Their 'black ink only' rule seems to be somewhat flexible, as they have processed a refund form completed in Noodler's Nightshade, which is, as I noted in the earlier post, fairly close to the colour of an aubergine (or 'eggplant', dear American readers; do you see how effortlessly cosmopolitan several days in mainland Europe has made me?) Perhaps we are winning the war, even if the Great Brown Whale is still out there, mocking me, taunting me, frustrating me. Tot straks...

Ink in use today: Sailor Brown.

When is a gift not a gift?

Is it ever acceptable to return a gift? Is the practice of 'de-gifting', as a memorable episode of Seinfeld calls it, simply taboo?

While I was whiling away the afternoon with thoughts of which ink and pen I'm going to take with me on the impending Belgian leg of the Ink Quest, I heard a knock at the front door. Answering it, I was greeted by a woman who was conducting a survey of people's feelings about the possibility of a ban on smoking in all enclosed public spaces being introduced by the Welsh Assembly. As this is an issue that interests me, I repressed my misanthropic instinct to close the door.

Five minutes later, the survey completed, my interrogator presented me with a small red plastic object. 'It's a present for giving up your time', she said as she turned away and moved on up the street. By the time that I'd figured out what the item was, she had disappeared. It's about 8cm long, has a key-ring on the end ... and turns out to be a miniature ballpoint pen. (Only when the barrel is twisted does the point emerge.)

I have the name and address of the company that's conducting the research on behalf of the Assembly, and I'm wondering if I should simply post the 'gift' back to them. I don't want it in my house, and I really don't think that anything from the ballpoint family counts as a 'gift'. (Is it like a vampire, by the way? Have I, in carelessly inviting it to cross the threshold, opened up a world of horror? Will I never be rid of it until I drive the sharpened nib of a real pen through its cold, plastic heart?) Come to think of it, why isn't the Welsh Assembly canvassing opinions about a total ban on ballpoint pens in public places?

I'll continue to wrestle with the ethical dilemma of 'de-gifting' while I'm in Belgium. Normal service, dear readers, will resume towards the end of next week, and I promise to fill you all in on this latest thrilling international phase of the Ink Quest. Think of it as my gift to you.

Inks in use today: Conway Stewart Blue, Diamine Golden Brown.

Fight for the Write

The war is hotting up.

I spend many hours every week reading and writing in the basement of the University library. Technically, the space in question is the Special Collections Room, where all of the rare items are held, but I've simply found that it's the quietest part of the building, as not many people use it. While I was in there yesterday morning, merrily enjoying how rich the Noodler's Walnut was looking as it flowed from my nib, the person sitting next to me told me that she'd heard of a campaign to have ink banned from the room. (You may recall from an earlier post here that the British Library has recently imposed a complete ban.)

I can, I suppose, see the sense in not allowing someone working with one of the rare items to use ink, but I've never actually consulted one of these volumes, as my kind of research is non-archival, which means that I can always work from my own readily-available copies of texts. Besides, the precious books in the basement are kept in locked glass cabinets, so there's really no risk of my evil fluid causing any damage.

I hate the thought of being driven from my favourite working space, so I'm prepared yet again to go the barricades. But what is the better strategy: fight the ban in its entirety, or fight for a special clause that allows the use of ink where non-precious texts are involved? The latter is more likely to win approval, yes, but I am enraged enough by the whole rumour to launch an all-out attack.

Meanwhile, a related battle is being bravely fought in Memphis, where a Professor of Law is facing protests from students after she banned the use of laptops in her lectures. Pens and paper should, she notified her classes by email earlier this month, be used to take notes in future, as the use of computers for note-taking was becoming a distraction. The pen-phobes have tried to file a complaint with the American Bar Association, and one student has even threatened to leave. The full story can be read here.

Humanities students in the UK don't, in my experience, use laptops to take notes in lectures and seminars, but I fear that such a day of cacophony might come. This is why it is so important to fight now - and fight hard - for the preservation of pens (proper ones, I mean) and ink. I will, therefore, be recruiting volunteers to march to Memphis, where an embattled soul needs our help. (There will, however, be a short delay while the Ink Quest takes me to Belgium, but I promise that I'll meet you in the trenches as soon as I finish shopping.) We have nothing to lose but our 4Hs. Conscription is the only way to save scription.

Inks in use today: Diamine Golden Brown, Noodler's Walnut.

Moby Ink

The great brown whale that has eluded me for so long might finally be in my sights.

As I've regularly reported, Omas Sepia ink has driven me halfway around the world in search of its delicate hue. I've scoured countless shops for a bottle, but my queries have always been met with a sigh and a shake of the head. The closest that I've ever come to the beast was in Selfridges on London's Oxford Street. 'Do you have Omas Sepia?', I asked the friendly assistant. 'I believe so, sir', she said, and rummaged around beneath the counter for what felt like an eternity (my heart was racing and I'd broken out in a cold sweat, of course). 'Ah', she finally said from the depths of the storage cabinet. 'We only seem to have grey and blue left, and we won't be getting any new stock in'. I came away with the grey, and I've been using it happily ever since, but the gap in my life has remained.

Until now, perhaps. I happened recently to mention this particular aspect of the Ink Quest to an Italian colleague who also loves pens (she has the most magnificent collection that I've ever seen, and we once whiled away an absurdly boring meeting by secretly scrutinizing a selection of beauties that she'd brought in for the occasion). On hearing about my global pursuit of the great brown whale, she immediately offered to ask her sister to send me two bottles from Italy, where Omas products are easily obtainable.

And so, Moby Ink, we might just meet at last. Will capturing you bring finally the Ink Quest to an end? Or will the reality, Marcel-like, fail to live up to my expectations? Until the parcel arrives, I must keep sailing.

Inks in use today: Conway Stewart Blue (a new arrival); Private Reserve Tanzanite.

Taxing times

Just how much am I willing to spend in the name of ink?

I'm asking this question because I fear that I may just have waved goodbye to about £50. Having bought a new car on the weekend, I sat down this morning to fill in the form that will allow me to claim back the money for the unused portion of the old car's tax disc. The instructions that came with the form from the DVLA clearly stated that black ink was to be used throughout, but I suddenly realized that the only black ink available in my office was to be found (I can barely bring myself to say it) in a long-discarded ballpoint, as the two fountain pens that I've brought into work today are filled with Noodler's Nightshade and Private Reserve Tanzanite.

Unable to bring myself to touch the ballpoint (what if someone happened to see me?), I decided that, of the two authentic inks at my disposal, the Nightshade was the closest to black, and I recklessly completed the form in what, let's face it, is the colour of an aubergine.

Having now sent off the claim, I'm imagining a ballpoint-pushing bureaucrat at the DVLA scribbling 'REJECT' across my delicately illuminated manuscript and putting it straight into a shredder, along with my chances of a refund. But, when it comes to ink, I know where my duty lies.

Inks recklessly in use today: Noodler's Nightshade (not black); Private Reserve Tanzanite (not even close)

'I can't go on, I'll go on.'

Fear not, avid and numerous readers - the Ink Quest continues.

After leaving you on the edge of your seats for several days (not since Agent Cooper was shot in the Great Northern Hotel has there been such a cliffhanger), I'm happy to report that I managed to escape the 'option paralysis' that threatened to bring the Ink Quest to an end.

It turned out that the problem was not with the ink; it lay, rather, in the choice of pen. As you'll recall, the paralysis struck just as I had decided to switch pens, from a Pelikan to a Visconti. I'm very fond of the latter, but I've been using my Pelikan almost constantly since I bought a calligraphy nib for it a month or so ago. I've come to love the line variation and shading that this object allows, even if it did take a while to get used to the angle at which you have to hold such a thing, and I'd been particularly enjoying writing with it on the day of the 'option paralysis'. After several lengthy sessions with the country's top analysts, I've realized that I was unconsciously unwilling to give up the calligraphy nib on Wednesday afternoon. Why this had to be repressed to the depths of my unconscious, and why the trouble found itself displaced onto ink bottles, I do not know. What matters, I suppose, is that this hysterical episode has been overcome and that the legions of readers of Ink Quest once again have something to enjoy. It's like Conan Doyle bringing Holmes back from the dead -- I just couldn't let so many, many readers down.

Meanwhile, the next international phase of the Ink Quest is shaping up nicely (some would say obsessively, of course). Work will take me to Belgium for several days in a few weeks, and I've been reliably informed that Ghent (or 'Gent', depending upon which spelling you prefer) has an excellent pen and ink shop called Timmermans. (I cannot understand why this is not listed in The Rough Guide to Ghent and Bruges. Who cares about the Adoration of the Mystic Lamb when an adoration of ink is at stake?) I'm already ridiculously excited about what might lurk within Timmermans (the shop does not have a website, so I can't even peek before I visit.) And I'll have about half a day in Brussels before coming back, so there will be yet more unknown streets to wander in search of the great brown whale that goes by the name of Omas Sepia.

Inks in use today: Visconti Brown; Noodler's Nightshade.

'...shade without colour / Paralysed force...'

In Generation X, Douglas Coupland describes 'option paralysis' in the following manner: 'The tendency, when given unlimited choices, to make none.' I fear that I have reached this point with ink.

The day began so well. I did all of the reading that I had planned to do by lunchtime, and I managed this afternoon to write several pages of deathless prose. Then, about fifteen minutes ago, my Pelikan ran dry. I decided that this would be a good moment to switch pens, and chose within seconds the replacement - my trusty Visconti - from the storage case in which all of my beautiful babies live. That's when the problem arose. When it came to choosing which ink to use, I looked long and hard at the many bottles that litter my desk (the full, shameless list of my acquisitions is given in one of the entries below this one), but was unable to come to a decision. And I'm still stuck, paralysed by the options that I have obsessively amassed. Ironically, the writing that's waiting to be done is the conclusion of a conference paper on ink (oh, the lucky, lucky audience). Once again, as on 16 February (see below), ink is stopping me from writing about ink. Will I have to cancel my appearance at the conference? Will I ever write another word? Is this how the ink quest ends -- not with a bang but a whimper?

Inks in use today: Noodler's Nightshade (until fifteen minutes ago)...

Inkfidel?

Forgive me, for I think that I may have sinned.

As I pointed out in an earlier post (19 October 2005), lovers of ink are lovers of danger, and they laugh in the face of a risk-obsessed society. (I have, incidentally, more recently spotted in my local supermarket the degree zero of the contemporary attempt to manage risk: a packet of monkey nuts with the phrase 'CONTAINS NUTS' stamped on the back.) I fear, though, that I may have done something that puts me on the side of the enemy.

Several weeks ago, the 'O' ring on my Sailor 1911 fountain pen snapped and fell to the floor when I unscrewed the barrel. Before I could make sense of what had happened, one of my cats had eaten the object. (All three of them love elastic bands for some reason; perhaps they've just got their own stationery obsession.) At the time, I had no idea what function this curious little piece of rubber serves, but I have been informed by some kind people at the Fountain Pen Network that it is there to ensure that the barrel fits snugly against the section. If the converter were to start leaking ink inside the barrel, moreover, the 'O' ring would minimize the amount to escape into the open air.

In other words, the rubber is, well, just that: it offers protection, keeps fluids at bay, makes for safe writing, minimizes risk. And every time that I have used the pen without the 'O' ring, I have been playing a dangerous game.

But here's the problem: while I've been happy to risk exposure to ink, the perfectionist in me has been feeling that the pen is no longer pristine. Finally, after weeks of turmoil, I sent an email to the Sailor UK office yesterday afternoon, informing them of the demise of the 'O' ring. I received a reply this morning, and a free replacement is on its way to me in the post ('It's easy to fit', I've been promised). Does this mean that I have chosen perfection, protection, and the management of risk over the illicit dangers of ink? Should I enjoy one last wild afternoon with the rubber-free pen before settling back into a quiet, safe, respectable life? Or is there no going back?

Inks in use today: Diamine Prussian Blue; Levenger Cocoa.

Inkvangelism?

Is it wrong that, while filling out a paying-in slip in the bank this morning, I was suddenly seized by the desire to notify the manager that the colour of ink in the pen provided was repulsive? (Are the chains on the pens, then, contrary to what we're told, there to stop people from throwing the pens into the bin in disgust? Who on earth would steal such a hideous object?) Yes, the bank uses ballpoints, so I'm never going to be happy with the state of things, but I'd happily accept a lower rate of interest in return for custom-made ballpoints that are filled with, say, a delicate brown ink. I'm already a little concerned at how I'm going to react tomorrow morning when I have to go and fill out the forms for a new car. The dealer spent ages showing me the different colours available for the bodywork, but I doubt very much that he'll give the same attention to the ink in the pen with which I'm going to have sign the papers.

Does this mark a new, worrying stage in my obsession with ink? Have my once-private quibbles taken on an imperialistic quality? Will I not rest until the whole world is writing according to my whims? Am I doomed to walk the streets with a placard that reads 'The Nib is Nigh'? Have I become a bottle-thumping inkvangelist?

Inks in use today: Noodler's Nightshade; Omas Grey.