W.A.S.T.E. of Ink

It's enough to make a person go postal.

Today's entry will be brief, dear readers, and is intended merely to keep you entertained while I work on a longer post about the relationship between the sound of a voice and the colour of ink.

Actually, today's post is more of a warning than a piece of entertainment, for displayed above are two photographs of what happened to a cartridge of Herbin Lie de Thé ink while it was en route from Ink Towers to the home of honorary Penquod crew member Eileen. I have often suspected that the postal service is conspiring against me, and I have considered following the lead of Kramer, who, in an episode of Seinfeld entitled 'The Junk Mail', decides that he wishes to opt out of the service:

Postal Employee: May I help you?
Kramer: Yeah, I'd like to cancel my mail.
Postal Employee: Certainly. How long would you like us to hold it?
Kramer: Oh, no, no. I don't think you get me. I want out, permanently.
Newman: I'll handle this, Violet. Why don't you take your three hour break? Oh, calm down, everyone. No one's cancelling any mail.
Kramer: Oh, yes, I am.
Newman: What about your bills?
Kramer: The bank can pay 'em.
Newman: The bank. What about your cards and letters?
Kramer: E-mail, telephones, fax machines. Fedex, telex, telegrams, holograms.
Newman: All right, it's true! Of course nobody needs mail. What do you think, you're so clever for figuring that out? But you don't know the half of what goes on here. So just walk away, Kramer, I beg of you.

But I cannot, on reflection, live entirely without post, for many of my inky purchases are delivered to me by Royal Mail. (A bottle of Noodler's Eternal Luxury Blue and some beautiful G. Lalo Vergé de France writing paper arrived yesterday from The Writing Desk, for instance, as did a vial of Penman Chestnut ink and a test piece of Ciak paper from Eileen.) What I need, then, is an alternative to Royal Mail. As a fierce opponent of the opening-up of basic state services to market competition, I will not even consider one of the various companies that now competes with Royal Mail in the UK. I'm thinking, rather, of something a little more radical. I need a firm that will protect my ink on its travels. In the light of the terrible waste pictured above, I'm switching over to W.A.S.T.E.

Ink in use today: Noodler's Eternal Luxury Blue.

Caffeink

I have measured out my life with coffee spoons.

Well, coffee spoons and converters for fountain pens, to be more precise, but T.S. Eliot's line flows much better. I have noted in a previous post the shocking extent of my addiction to caffeine. Coffee, that is to say, is always on mind, always in my veins. But it's in my thoughts even more this evening, as sixteen years ago to the day I left Britain to live in Northern California for twelve months. I never forget this anniversary when it comes around, but it's been even more apparent to me this year because I have, by way of coincidence, just finished reading Armistead Maupin's Michael Tolliver Lives, the sad, elegiac coda to the original six Tales of the City novels. Those six books capture Northern California better than any others, as far as I'm concerned; I always regret not telling Armistead Maupin this when he signed my copy of the first volume some years ago at a literary festival.

While it's commonly known as the 'sunshine state', I maintain -- with racing pulse and shaking hand -- that California is the coffee state, for it was there that I first saw my favourite drink treated as a way of life, a work of art, a philosophical maxim. In the early 1990s, Britain really wasn't interested in coffee. Tea was seen as the national drink the time -- I assume that alcopops have inherited, and vomited on, that particular crown by now -- and it was not uncommon to be served instant coffee in cafés. Today, by way of complete contrast, we're regularly told that Brits have fallen head over heels in love with the bean: Starbucks, Costa, Caffè Nero, and the like are everywhere, and it's impossible to walk through a British city without seeing someone carrying what Larry David, in a magnificent episode of Curb Your Enthusiasm, affectionately refers to as 'some vanilla bullshit latte cappa thing'.

In 1992, then, I was thrilled to discover that Californians, unlike my fellow Brits, genuinely care about coffee. Someone even once quipped, when yet another earth tremor shook the seminar room, that 'Mother Earth needs her morning espresso'. Better still, students would actually meet in coffee houses for the evening, rather than the dark, damp, smelly, ugly pubs preferred by their British counterparts. It would be impossible to measure out, with coffee spoons or any other instrument, how many hours I spent reading and writing -- but not, you'll be surprised to hear, really socializing -- in Caffe Pergolesi, Santa Cruz. (Allow me to digress for a moment and address the anxiety that coffee houses are killing off the 'good old British pub'. I sincerely hope that they are. Pubs are hideous, unnecessary cesspits, and I long for the day when the very last one in Britain is bulldozed to make way for a Starbucks drive-through. I will, though, just add this: the Starbucks drive-through in Cardiff Bay -- the first in Europe, I believe -- is an utter catastrophe (even if it's rather useful when Baby Ink, who likes to destroy cafés, is being ferried somewhere while safely restrained in his car seat). The baristas can never hear the orders being shouted into the microphone by drivers -- I have almost ordered a single Serenity Now! on more than one occasion -- and they always try to chat with me while my drink is being prepared. I have now taken to keeping the car window closed until I can see the cup emerging, and I'm searching everywhere for a 'No unsolicited conversation' sticker to which I can simply point if an attempt at chatting is made.)

When I discussed my physical need for both ink and caffeine a little over a year ago, I noted that I was dealing with 'a blend of addictions'. Twelve months on, I'm delighted to learn that there is now a convenient way to bring the two loves, the two cravings, into perfect harmony. Following a link posted on the Fountain Pen Network, I have discovered the stunning work of a Spanish artist named Julia Mariscal. More specifically, I have set my heart on the 'Writing Spoon' (or Cuchara para Escribir). This wonderful object is, as its name suggests, a spoon that can, thanks to a point that resembles the nib of a fountain pen, be dipped into coffee and used as a writing instrument. You can read all about the 'Writing Spoon' by clicking here, and there is even a YouTube video of the object in action.

But if my morning coffee is now destined to be used only as ink, what about my physical need for caffeine? As I noted in my earlier post about the 'blend of addictions', I get a terrible headache if I haven't consumed several espressos by 11am. I don't think that my skull will be satisfied by elegant coffee doodlings on the tablecloth. In other words, the 'Writing Spoon' threatens to set my two addictions into conflict with each other. If my attraction to ink leads me to draw lines with my espresso, I will be drawn into painful withdrawal from caffeine. The lines must remain drawn, then: ink is for writing, and coffee is for drinking. The 'Writing Spoon' must be written off. A case of spiting runes, if you'll pardon the Spoonerism.

Ink in use today: Omas Sepia.
Coffee in use today: Starbucks French Roast.

Television: The Drug of the Nation

In the name of ink, television must be screened.

I am not one of those parents who believes that children should never be exposed to television. As I see it, to make something into an unreachable, forbidden fruit is merely to make that object all the more desirable. And I genuinely believe, unlike some of the TV-less people with whom I have worked over the years, that the finest television shows are just as profound and memorable as anything produced by the likes of Tolstoy, Flaubert, and Kafka. Yes, there's a huge amount of utter rubbish, but then there are unforgettable series such as Seinfeld, Curb Your Enthusiasm, The Sopranos, and The Wire. (Ink Towers is currently finding it very difficult to face up to the fact that there are just a few episodes of the latter to air, and I have only made matters worse by peeping impatiently at the plot summaries on the HBO website.) When, in my distant undergraduate days, 'Television: The Drug of the Nation' was often heard blasting from student residences, I always found the Disposable Heroes of Hiphoprisy to be a little self-righteous and misguided. 'But haven't they seen Twin Peaks?', I asked myself, puzzled. (Ink Quest reader and old friend Nixon will remember, no doubt, the ruse that we cooked up in halls of residence in our first year. Twin Peaks had just begun, and we were hooked. The only problem was that my ancient black-and-white TV had decided to break, so we were forced to retire, along with a couple of other fans of the series, to the communal television room in the central block. The rule here was that any disputes about the choice of channel would be settled by a vote; the majority would always get its way. When we noticed, five minutes before our beloved show was about to start, a sizable group of people watching football, we raced down to the bar and persuaded an even bigger group of acquaintances to come up to the television room and pretend to be fans of Twin Peaks. As soon as we had won the vote and the sports fans had retreated, our friends made their way back down to the bar, leaving us in peace to watch Special Agent Dale Cooper in action.)

Baby Ink is, therefore, allowed to watch TV, and, while he's not particularly interested in the medium (why would he be when he can run in demented fashion around the living room instead, leaving black marks on the walls that his father has just painted?), he usually winds down in the evenings in front of an episode of In the Night Garden. In time I'll inktroduce him to The Death of Ivan Ilyich and Waiting for Godot, and he might even want to consider translating sections of The Iliad at some point, but for now he seems to be getting everything he needs from Iggle Piggle and the gang.

But something that I spotted on the screen yesterday morning has led me to reconsider my position and to give serious thought to imposing a total ban on television in Ink Towers. Baby Ink was playing with his toys and half-watching an episode of Rupert on Five. Unlike the various BBC channels, Five is a commercial station, which means that it shows advertisements in and between its programmes. (Am I the only person left in the UK who believes in the annual fee of £139.50 for owning a television? I would happily pay three times that amount if it meant that all television and radio were, like the BBC channels and stations, free from advertising.) I am usually mildly amused by the latest plastic invention with which the toy companies are trying to seduce the nation's young, but I found myself flung into a fury yesterday by a particular advert that appeared in the middle of Rupert. I have since seen it on two further occasions, so it's clearly promoting the latest 'must have' object.

The item being advertised is a writing instrument -- a rollerball, to be more precise -- called the 'Move Easy'. It is produced by the Stabilo pen company, and it looks, as you can see if you visit the official website, a bit like a slug. What really disturbs me, however, is not the pen itself; it's the advert designed to promote the ugly object. I have found what appears to be an edited, German-language version on YouTube, but I will none the less provide a brief plot summary.

The clip is set in a classroom, where children are writing at their desks in an examination of some kind. One child -- notably plumper, scruffier, and less fashionable than the others -- is struggling to use a conventional fountain pen. His nib scratches dryly at the page. He desperately shakes the pen as the clock ticks away and time runs out. He has ink all over his fingers, and more splashes onto his work as he gives up and throws down the useless writing instrument. Meanwhile, behind him, a slimmer, tidier, trendier boy is completing his assignment with ease. He is, of course, writing with a Stabilo 'Move Easy'. As the advert ends, the rollerball-wielding victor looks smugly on at the exasperated failure in front of him.

I don't know if Baby Ink took any of this in, but I am worried about what repeated exposure to this vile propaganda might do to him. As I have no way of knowing when the advert will next appear, it is perhaps easier simply to throw away our television. If I don't make this radical move, he may take the fiction of the advert to be the truth about the world. He might, that is to say, come to believe that mockery and disaster await him in school if he carries a fountain pen. He might, furthermore, think that he can only be successful and happy if he owns a Stabilo 'Move Easy' rollerball. Worse still, he might start associating the overweight, unfashionable, failing, ink-splattering idiot with his fountain-pen-wielding father, even though I am nothing like th -- oh, wait...

[TEMPORARY BREAK IN TRANSMISSION]

Ink Quest was brought to you today by: Omas Sepia; Aurora Blue.

Inktestate

A very brief post, dear readers, simply to note two monumental events. (I'm currently working on a full-length ramble, and I hope to inkthrall you with it at some point tomorrow.)

First, visitor number 25,000 has just passed through the doors of Ink Quest. The lucky inkdividual was, according to Sitemeter, accessing the blog from Copenhagen, Denmark (Hej!, dear reader, and thanks be given to your nation for inventing the marvel of the Danish sandwich), and his or her visit took the total number of hits for this site to 35,198. (Some crazy people read more than one page when they come here, you see.)

Second, and to follow up on the previous entry in the log of the Penquod, I eventually managed to choose an ink with which to sign my last will and testament. The competition was tough, and there were several abandoned fillings of pens. In the end, probably because of its special place in the history of Ink Quest, I chose Omas Sepia. This, longtime readers will remember, was the Great Brown Whale that eluded my grasp on many occasions in different parts of the world until I gave in and had a bottle posted to me from The Fountain Pen Hospital in New York.

As the ink dried, as my mortality set before my eyes, I admired the beautiful colour and the delicate shading. I had, I congratulated myself, made the right choice.

But now I'm not so sure. My solicitor is going to file the document in what he describes as 'fireproof storage', but he has said nothing about how waterproof his bunker is. I could have used any number of water-resistant inks to sign the will, but I chose a shade that, while impossibly elegant, does not hold up very well under water. What happens if my solicitor's storage facility is flooded? (It has been raining constantly in Wales for about three weeks now, so a deluge is a possibility.) Have I failed again? Have I managed to turn writing -- which has the potential to be immortal and to outlive its author -- into a weak, diluted, mortal entity? I said at the end of my previous post that I would try not to let choosing the appropriate ink be the death of me, but it now appears that I have, in choosing a certain shade, been the death of ink.

I can hear the waters of the Taff rising. The flood is coming. My will will die before I do. I will perish inktestate.

Ink in use today: Omas Sepia.

Will Power

They say that where there's a will, there's a way, but the right ink just will not come my way.

Pictured above is a space that awaits my signature, and it's probably the most strange and striking space that I've ever looked at. You are gazing, dear readers, at part of the final page of my Last Will and Testament. Don't be alarmed: I am not, as far as I know, about to go to the great inkwell in the sky; this is purely a routine matter that is, according to my financial advisor, all the more important now that Baby Ink is in the world.

I've noted in the past how figures such as Roland Barthes, Michel Foucault, and Jacques Derrida have discussed the intimate relationship between writing and death. Unlike live speech, a written mark has the power to carry on meaning long after its maker passes away. As soon as I write something down, I'm tacitly acknowledging the undying nature of a sign produced by a dying animal. Ink and death, in other words, eternally shadow each other. (This relationship, inkidentally, has often been discussed in fiction. See, for inkstance, Gustave Flaubert's Madame Bovary, Jorge Luis Borges' 'The Mirror of Ink', Daphne du Maurier's Rebecca, J.M. Coetzee's Foe, and the brilliant tale from the Arabian Nights -- later reworked by Umberto Eco in The Name of the Rose -- about a book entitled The Secret of Secrets whose inky pages have been laced with poison.)

But today I find myself without the comfort of fiction or philosophy; it's just me and the document that anticipates my death in the calm and collected cadences of law. And it wants me to make it official, binding, complete by signing it with one of my inks.

The problem is that I can't choose the shade with which to authenticate the will. As soon as I sign my name, I will create a mark that will inkevitably be studied after my death. But how do I wish to remembered? Which ink do I want to stand in for me when I am no longer here? Some inkthusiasts have a single colour to which they turn again and again; they have, that is to say, a 'signature' shade. I, however, flit restlessly from ink to ink, so there is no 'signature' shade with which I can form my signature upon my will. I have considered Sennelier Neutre, my latest acquisition, but I'm not fluent enough with a dip pen to sign my name in a comfortable (or recognizable) manner. (I don't think that my solicitor will accept the document if it bears several crossed-out attempts.) And I have given thought to Noodler's Heart of Darkness -- one of the blackest blacks around -- but I very rarely use black ink, which I find somewhat bland, and I'd hate my Last Will and Testament to look anything but flamboyant. (Forget the importance of making a good first impression; this is a matter of making a good last impression.) I am, in other words, currently stuck in a dead end.

I will have to give this grave matter further thought. With the best will in the world, though, I don't have forever to decide. I will try not to let it be the death of me.

Ink in use today: [To be confirmed].

Neutrencre

I've been dipping my toes into unfamiliar waters.

Ink Quest, which began babbling in late 2005, now has nearly three hundred entries. While the details change from post to post, one thing remains constant: ink. And when I've used the word 'ink' here over the last few years, I've inkvariably meant ink for fountain pens. There are, of course, many other types of ink, but I've never really taken an inkterest in them, simply because their chemical composition means that to use them in, say, a Parker 61 would be disastrous. The pulse of the Penquod, that is to say, has only ever been sent racing by shades designed for fountain pens. All of that changed today, however, and I present above a photograph of the object of desire that has made my heart beat faster.

As I have noted in many of my ramblings, one of my great heroes is Roland Barthes. I believe I have also pointed out on at least one previous occasion a glorious moment in Le Neutre, a course given at the Collège de France in 1977-8, where petit Roland tells of a recent shopping trip. Because Ink Quest has French-speaking readers, I will quote the relevant passage in two languages:

jeudi 9 mars, bel après-midi, je sors pour m’acheter des couleurs (encres Sennelier) → flacons de colorine: par appétit des noms (jaune d’or, bleu lumière, vert brillant, pourpre, jaune soleil, rose carthame – rose assez soutenu), j’en achète seize flacons. Les rangeant, j’en renverse un: en épongeant je faisais de nouveaux dégâts: petites complications ménagères … Et maintenant, je vais vous donner le nom officiel de la couleur renversée, nom imprimé sur la petite bouteille (comme sur les autres vermillon, turquoise, etc.): c’était la couleur nommée Neutre (évidemment j’avais ouvert ce flacon en premier pour voir de quelle couleur il était, ce Neutre dont je parle pendant treize semaines. Eh bien, j’ai été puni et deçu: puni parce que le Neutre éclabousse et tache (c’est une espèce de noir-gris mat); deçu parce que le Neutre est une couleur comme les autres, et qui se vend (donc, le Neutre n’est pas invendable): l’inclassable est classé → mieux vaut donc revenir au discours qui, au moins, peut ne pas dire ce qu’est le Neutre.

[Finally, a personal incident, which will nicely introduce the figures to come: Thursday, March 9, fine afternoon, I go out to buy some colours (Sennelier inks) → bottles of pigment: following my taste for the names (golden yellow, sky blue, brilliant green, purple, sun yellow, cartham pink – a rather intense pink), I buy sixteen bottles. In putting them away, I knock one over: in sponging up, I make a new mess: little domestic complications ... And now, I am going to give you the official name of the spilled colour, a name printed on the small bottle (as on the others vermilion, turquoise, etc.): it was the colour called Neutral (obviously I had opened this bottle first to see what kind of colour was this Neutral about which I am going to be speaking for thirteen weeks). Well, I was both punished and disappointed: punished because Neutral spatters and stains (it's a type of dull gray-black); disappointed because Neutral is a colour like the others, and for sale (therefore, Neutral is not unmarketable): the unclassifiable is classified → all the more reason for us to go back to discourse, which, at least, cannot say what the Neutral is.]

As soon as I read this passage and saw the cover of the English translation of Le Neutre, I longed for a bottle of Sennelier Neutre. It wasn't long, however, before I discovered that the product is Shellac-based, which means that it can't be put into fountain pens; it is, rather, manufactured for dip pens and brushes. (I assume that petit Roland was shopping for colours with which to paint on 9 March 1978, as he was very fond of creating lovely little abstract artworks, some of which can be seen in the magnificent R/B volume produced to accompany the even more magnificent exhibition devoted to Barthes which was staged at the Centre Georges Pompidou a few years ago.)

I meant to search for a bottle of Sennelier Neutre when I was in Paris earlier this year, but, as I noted shortly after my return to Ink Towers, the trip was a rather hurried and frantic affair. Today, however, I stumbled across a bottle of the magical liquid in the strangest of places.

I grew up in a small, dull town in the Welsh borderlands, and I spent my teenage years plotting permanent escape. I don't go back there very often -- for much the same reason that convicts who have made it over the wall don't return for coffee and cake -- but family visits do occasionally have to be made. (I make sure to wear a false moustache, smoky glasses, and a trenchcoat during such trips, and the car engine is always left running while I'm inside my parents' house.) One such visit occurred this afternoon, and I found myself at one point wandering down the main shopping street where my deformative years were misspent. Many of the shops have changed in the two decades since I fled. There are now several cafés that happily serve espresso, for example, whereas it used to be the case that ordering a simple black coffee marked one out as a dangerous radical who probably ought to be encouraged to move to Paris and wear a beret. No one would have known what an espresso was back then, but they would have known this: normal people drink tea.

I've mentioned in previous posts the archaic stationery shop that used to stand in the main street, and I've also recorded my retrospective sadness at its passing. What I haven't discussed, however, is the art supply shop that now occupies the building in which the stationery shop once dwelled. I must confess that I usually find visiting stores that sell materials for artists a somewhat anxious affair. This is probably because I am absolutely hopeless at art -- I was told in school that I couldn't carry on with the subject, as the teacher believed me to be the least talented painter he'd ever seen -- and because I therefore always feel that I'm in a place where I don't belong when I'm surrounded by blank canvases, easels, tubes of oil paint, and complicated objects for which I do not know the proper names. I haven't been inside the art supply shop in question on many occasions, therefore, but I noticed some potentially interesting notebooks in the window today, so I took a deep breath, looked as casually artistic as possible, and crossed the threshold.

The bohemian woman at the counter squinted a little as I entered the shop. I thought that I'd been spotted as a non-artist, and I waited to be asked to leave, but the request did not come. I made my way over to the paper and notebooks, therefore, and examined the offerings. Nothing really caught my eye, but something called out to me -- 'Monsieur!' -- from a dark shelf as I was preparing to leave. I bent down and peered into the gloom. A certain silhouette looked familiar. I racked my brains ... and the cover of the English translation of Roland Barthes' Le Neutre leapt into my mind. I reached out my hand and picked up the bottle of Sennelier Neutre.

All of this happened about seven hours ago. I thought that I would have developed the effortless style -- both authorial and sartorial -- of petit Roland by now, but I'm sorry to say that I'm still me. My dull self has not yet been neutralized by the Neutre. I have, however, been enjoying playing with my new ink and a dip pen. In what I'm optimistically reading as the first signs of becoming-Roland, I've spent quite some time making abstract patterns on index cards. I'm expecting the job offer from the Collège de France to arrive by about next Thursday.

This is my first real experience with a non-fountain-pen ink, and things feel slightly different. For starters, there's the smell: the Neutre has a chemical odour that I've never come across with water-based inks. (Is it the Shellac? Why does the phrase 'What does Shellac smell like?' appear nowhere on the internet, according to Google? What is Shellac? Why does it sound like a covert operation sanctioned by Nixon shortly before Watergate?) And then there's the pipette that's built into the lid of the bottle. I have never seen this feature on a bottle of ink designed for fountain pens, but I have now seen the future: it's a squeezable bulb. Transferring ink from a bottle to a vial usually involves the precarious use of a separate syringe, but not with the Sennelier. This is an ink that wants to help, that wants to be drawn up, drawn with, and drawn into conversation.

Finally, there's the colour itself. For once, I disagree with Barthes, as I would never describe Neutre as 'a dull gray-black'. To my eyes, it's reminiscent of the glorious aubergine-like Noodler's Nightshade, but it can be both darker and lighter, depending upon how recently the nib has been dipped. It glistens, moreover, in a manner that I've never seen with a water-based ink. The lines on my Neutre-covered index card have dried, but still they sparkle in the light. I have found a shade that neutralizes the conventional opposition between wet and dry.

Every silver lining has a cloud, of course. I have found one of the most magnificent colours ever created, and my heart skips a beat whenever I look at it, but Sennelier Neutre can never, because of its formulation, flow from one of my beloved fountain pens. Happiness, as usual, is neutralized.

Ink in use today: Sennelier Neutre.

Inkaiten

Take note: take notes.

Two friends from London were in Inktown today, so the Inkette and I met them for lunch in the centre of the city. We chose a Japanese restaurant where we've enjoyed many meals in the past, and where I once whiled away the better part of an afternoon with honorary Penquod crew member Arty. (Happy birthday tomorrow!) I'm particularly fond of the place because it's a kaiten restaurant, and I love watching alluring, enigmatic Japanese snacks touting for business from their little conveyor belt.

In the wake of today's fiasco, however, I will no longer be recommending the restaurant to people, and I hereby announce the inkauguration of a new movement called Inkaiten. This is an offshoot of the Inkeons, a group that I announced in a recent post. If there were not such fury involved, Inkaiten would have Zen-like qualities; the way things stand, the motto can only be a shouted 'Serenity Now!'

The debacle began when the waiter came to take our order. When one of us asked for Yasai Yaki Soba, he asked if he could suggest the special of the day, which was Yasai Yaki Udon. (The same dish, but with Udon noodles instead of egg noodles, in other words. Don't ask me why the 'Soba' in Yasai Yaki Soba does not refer to soba noodles; I did once read an explanation, and it may have something to do with translation, but I can no longer remember the story.) Our friend said that she would try the special, but I made it clear that I wanted the as-advertised Yasai Yaki Soba. The waiter said 'Okay', but it was at this point that I noticed something rather unsettling: he wasn't writing anything down. He proceeded to take all of our orders, and he then ran back through our choices. Well, he tried to. The problem was that, precisely because he hadn't taken notes, he hadn't remembered my order correctly: he said, to my vegetarian horror, that I'd ordered Chicken Yaki Soba. I corrected him in the politest possible manner. 'Of course', he said apologetically. 'Yasai Yaki Soba.' And off he went towards the kitchen.

We resumed our conversation, but the waiter returned a few minutes later. 'Sorry', he said, 'but I just want to check that I have your order right.' He then ran through our selections ... and once again got mine wrong. This time I was addressed as the imminent recipient of Yasai Yaki Udon. 'No', I said. 'Yasai Yaki Soba. I don't like Udon noodles.' 'Okay', he replied, and walked towards the kitchen for the second time.

As he made his way across the room, I found myself remembering the wonderful old Victoria Wood sketch usually known as 'Two Soups'. (If you've never come across this painful classic, dear readers, I urge you to click here and visit YouTube immediately. The Royle Family aside, it's probably the closest thing to Beckett that's ever appeared on prime-time British television.) I also wondered why on earth our waiter hadn't simply made use of a pen and notepad, as waiting staff have been doing all over the world for years. What was he waiting for? Realizing that I actually had a Japanese fountain pen (a Sailor Sapporo) in my pocket, I considered offering it to him or even writing down my order myself on a scrap of paper. Why was he so reluctant to put pen to paper? Writing is there to help us remember things; human beings are forgetful creatures. This is nothing to worry about -- 'There is no shame in forgetting: it is our nature to to forget as it is our nature to grow old and pass away', as an ink-themed passage of J.M. Coetzee's Foe puts it -- particularly because we have pens and inks to jog our memories. But what is worrying is an absent-minded waiter who resists the support of the nib.

Our conversation resumed. I, however, wasn't really paying much attention at this point, for a Costanza-like rage was building up inside me on account of what I could see on the other side of the restaurant: the penless, hapless waiter was looking over our table with a puzzled expression on his face. Yes, dear readers, he had forgotten the order once again. No, that's incorrect: twice again, for he had the audacity to return on two more occasions to verify the dishes that we'd chosen. He was accurate on these visits, though, so I thought that the problems were over.

How foolish I was to forget that the world is constantly inventing new ways to persecute me. When our food finally arrived, I was presented with a plate of -- yes, you guessed it -- Yasai Yaki Udon. I sent it back, of course, and the correct dish eventually made its way to my chopsticks. (But not before I'd wondered if the chef was simply going to put giant vegetables on my plate in an attempt to make the fat Udon noodles look thinner.)

We signalled our disbelief and contempt by refusing to leave a tip, but I have since thought of a neat way in which to combat the waiter's utter idiocy. (Let me perfectly clear about something before I go any further: none of this furious rant is founded upon a vile racist complaint about a Japanese waiter not being able to speak English properly; his English was flawless. His stupidity, rather, stemmed from his bizarre refusal to put pen to paper when taking orders. My complaint, in other words, is purely about writing instruments and ink.) Here, then, is my inky solution to the problem. Inspired by my recent plan to leave ink cartridges alongside the Gideons' Bible in hotel rooms, I'm going to return to the restaurant in question armed with some fine Japanese stationery, a Sailor fountain pen, and several bottles of Sailor ink. (I must revisit Roland Barthes L'Empire des signes for tips about Japanese stationery, as the book contains a wonderful section in which petit Roland describes the notebooks, ink stones, paper, and writing instruments on sale in Tokyo. I'm extremely curious, inkidentally, to find out if there are further inky moments in Un Homme, Une Ville, a series of radio broadcasts about Proust by Barthes that a reader of Ink Quest -- I haven't thought of a pseudonym for her yet, but elle n'est pas Trisha -- has, in a moment of remarkable generosity, just offered to send to me from France.)

Once inside the restaurant, I will take my seat. At a convenient moment, I will place the stationery, ink, and pen upon the conveyor belt, and I will wait for them to work their way around the room and catch the eye of the scribephobic waiter. They will be my tip to him. The revolutionary work of the Inkaiten will have begun. He will take note.

Ink in use today: Noodler's Heart of Darkness.

The Dearth of the Author

Which writer is righter?

Today's burning question is prompted by the De Atramentis range of inks that bear the names of literary and philosophical figures. I've always meant to inkvestigate the products in question, but I know of nowhere in the UK that stocks them, so I've been patiently waiting for a trip to Germany to present itself to the Penquod. A message received this week from a reader of Ink Quest -- let's call her Clinton, shall we, dear readers? -- has inflamed my desire, however, for Clinton spoke of De Atramentis shades in rapturous tones. The inks are delightfully smooth, she raved, and the bottles are exquisite.

I have, therefore, been spending every waking moment studying the many literary and philosophical inks listed on the De Atramentis website. But there is a problem: while my credit card is ready to be wounded, I can't quite make the leap. My paralysis stems, I think, from my inability to choose which way to approach matters: should I go by author or by colour? I started by considering the writers whose work I admire, but I quickly found that I didn't care much for the shades chosen to occupy the bottles bearing those authors' names. Kafka and Marx are both red, for instance, and I have no real use for ink of that colour. Poe, meanwhile, is emerald green, which makes me feel like M. Valdemar, and Goethe is 'night black', which I very rarely use. To make matters even more frustrating, De Atramentis has, in what is clearly an attempt to persecute me, given two of the writers whose work I dislike potentially interesting colours: Jane Austen is described as 'dark green', while Dickens is 'cement grey'.

Realizing that beginning with the author wasn't getting me anywhere, I decided to go back to first principles and take brown ink as a starting point. The quest for the perfect brown is what originally set the Penquod on its endless voyage in 2005, of course, and De Atramentis could have brought the search to a convenient end by producing the ideal brown ink and calling it 'Herman Melville'. It hasn't done that, but it does offer a couple of intriguing options: William Shakespeare and G.W.F. Hegel. I'm drawn more to the former because it's described as a dark brown, but I haven't yet negated the Hegel, which is simply 'brown', according to the De Atramentis website.

While the thought of a new brown (or possibly two new browns) in my collection is thrilling, I'm a little disappointed that the colours would bear the names of two figures whose writings do not really appeal to me. I work with people who would poke out my eyes for saying this, but I'm going to say it regardless: I mentally file Shakespeare under 'Of minor interest'. I quite like a few of the tragedies, especially the ones where death and hopelessness reign supreme, but the comedies do absolutely nothing for me. Kiss Me, Kate is, I will insist even as my eyes are put out, infinitely superior to The Taming of the Shrew. Cole Porter did things with language of which Shakespeare could only dream. If you don't believe me, listen to the lyrics for 'Where is the Life that Late I Led?' or 'Brush Up Your Shakespeare'. There is nothing in the work of The Bard that comes close to 'Where is Rebecca, my Becki-Weckio? / Could still she be cruising that amusing Ponte Vecchio?' or 'Brush up your Shakespeare / And the women you will wow. / Just declaim a few lines from Othella / And they'll think you're a heckuva fella.'

What about Hegel? Well, I know that he's cast a long shadow over Western philosophy, but all that business about teleology, concrete universals, and the Weltgeist leaves me cold. Many believe Marx to be one of the finest critics of Hegel, but Donna Haraway sums up the problems for me better than anyone else: '[D]ialectics [...] is a dream language, longing to resolve contradiction'. Like Walt Whitman, I'm happy with the contradictions of the world, and I have no desire to move forward by overcoming them. If I need a philosopher to see me through the night, moreover, the Francophile in me will take someone modern and French, such as Derrida or Lyotard. (But not Deleuze and Guattari. Absolutely not Deleuze and Guattari, who deserve to have nothing more than a ballpoint pen named after them. 'Behold the enemy!', as Donna Haraway says when discussing their inane writings.)

Does all of this mean that I will not order anything from the De Atramentis 'Literature' range? No, dear readers, it doesn't. We're still dealing with my beloved brown ink, after all, and

Love is not love
Which alters when it alteration finds,
Or bends with the remover to remove:
O, no! it is an ever-fixed mark
That looks on tempests and is never shaken;

Some kind of choice will eventually be made, even if it doesn't bring about a neat Hegelian resolution. I will find a new ink in the De Atramentis range with which to make 'an ever-fixed mark'. I can't promise, though, that the bottle will find itself 'never shaken'. After all, what's in a name?

Inks in use today: Herbin Cacao du Brésil; Noodler's Violet.

Leisure, Where?

Whatever happened to leisure?

I ask this question because I spent part of yesterday afternoon in a 'leisure centre'. As I have made my hatred of sport known on many occasions here, a few words of explanation are probably required at this point. On certain days of the week, our local leisure centre turns over half of its sports hall to what it calls 'soft play'. This deceptively named activity involves large numbers of toddlers running around, playing with various soft toys, and hurling themselves onto an inflatable castle. A small table holding crayons and colouring books is also on offer, but, as you can probably guess, it sees little action.

Because Baby Ink is in constant need of exhaustion, we decided to unleash him for an hour or so in the 'soft play' arena. When I'd got over the shock of actually being in a venue devoted to sport and exercise, and when I wasn't dragging him away from the adults engaged in 'circuit training' (how much training does a circuit need?) in the other half of the hall, I found myself questioning the use of the word 'leisure' with reference to the space around me. In front of my eyes, about a dozen small children were all at full throttle, their faces red with exertion. To my left, in the other half of the hall, grown-ups were running, jumping, lifting things, bending and stretching, sweating, and obeying the piercing whistle of the taskmaster (who constantly shouted things like 'Only ten more seconds!' and then, five seconds later, 'Only ten more seconds!'. I considered marching over and telling him that, as an owner of a watch made by the company that handles all of the official timing for the Olympics, I took offence at his poor timekeeping, but I was too comfortable sitting on a stuffed plastic horse in the middle of the play area. I also feared 'And what, Señor Pillsbury, would you know about the Olympics?' as a retort.) To my right, through a window, I could see yet more adults wrestling with strange machines. They seemed to be rowing, cycling, and running ... without actually going anywhere.

'But where is the leisure?', I wanted to shout to the clammy masses. Leisure, in my wheezing and flabby book, is filling a vial with Private Reserve Chocolat ink to send to a friend -- yes, dearest Eileen and Grover, the package left here this afternoon -- or perhaps writing a few slow lines with a favourite fountain pen in a new notebook. Leisure is flicking through the Fountain Pen Hospital catalogue with an espresso to hand, even though you already know the price of every item off by heart. Leisure is checking the website of The Writing Desk for the third time that day, just in case new inks have been added. Leisure should be, well, leisurely. Where did it all go wrong? How on earth did Western culture arrive at a point where a 'leisure centre' is a place where people go to make themselves sweaty, tired, and out of breath? I know that the word 'leisure' ultimately stretches back to 'licere', but some things just shouldn't be permitted.

I mulled over these questions at a leisurely pace later in the afternoon, dear readers, when walking around the centre of Cardiff with Baby Ink in his pushchair. He's not normally one to sit quietly and be wheeled around, but yesterday he was strangely silent. I checked to see if he had somehow fallen asleep, but his eyes were open. Testing the water (with my elbow, of course), I looked around a bookshop. And then another. Baby Ink kept his silence. A wonderful sentence from John Cheever's journals, in which the author describes taking his small son to see the skating rink in Central Park on Christmas Eve in 1952, came to mind: 'Young and made timid by the strangeness of the place and hour, he held my hand firmly and was a model of docile obedience and agreement.'

I then decided truly to test the limits of Baby Ink's taciturn co-operation: I wheeled his pushchair down Royal Arcade and into Pen and Paper. I fully expected him to break into his usual howl as we crossed the threshold, but his lips remained sealed. He even smiled up at me as I peered over the canopy to see if he was still awake. He then proceeded to sit quietly while I checked to see if the new Diamine Teal ink was yet in stock (it wasn't) and if the stationery section contained any Rhodia WebNoteBooks (it didn't). (I like the look of these new objects, and Rhodia paper is known for being fountain-pen-friendly, but I've heard mixed reports to date, so I'm curious to feel the quality of the sheets in the WebNoteBook before placing an order. I don't want a Moleskine fiasco all over again.)

And then I suddenly realized why Baby Ink was being so calm, such 'a model of docile obedience and agreement': he had worn himself out by running around the leisure centre for an hour. I was, in other words, licensed leisurely to explore two bookshops and a pen store precisely because he had taken part in 'leisure activities' earlier in the afternoon. Does this mean that a 'leisure centre' is not actually a centre of leisure at all, but that it creates leisure elsewhere in the world, and at a later moment? Did the person who created the signs for the world's first sports centre actually mishear the instructions and write 'leisure centre' instead of 'leisure sender'? There is clearly urgent research to be done, but I'm a bit tired to get the medicine ball rolling this evening. I'll look into things on other occasion. At my leisure.

Inks leisurely used today: Noodler's Violet; Noodler's Lexington Gray; Aurora Blue.