The Life of G. Fitzgerald

Ever since I saw the famous graffiti scene in Monty Python's The Life of Brian many years ago, I have paid very close attention to scribbles left upon walls. The details count.



I have no interest in creating graffiti of my own; I'm content to look at the handiwork of others. This is probably because fountain pens are not usually the weapon of choice for today's aerosol-wielding graffiti artists. (Wouldn't it be fun, though, to set up an urban posse called The Nib Crew? Under cover of darkness, we would climb over razor-wire -- minding our silk pocket squares as we went -- to leave inky art upon the sides of trains. At the sight of the police, we would quickly apply blotting paper to the carriages, screw the caps back onto our fountain pens, and disappear into the night.)

But were things once different? Was it once normal practice to use a fountain pen when scribbling on a wall? I ask because the Ink Towers loft conversion has revealed something rather intriguing. Now that the work is -- a few small tasks aside -- completed, I have been taking stock of what needs to be done in terms of painting. Where the workmen knocked a hole in the bedroom wall (see the entry of 6 November for graphic photographic evidence), they had to strip back some of the existing wallpaper. As I was adding this bare patch of wall to my list of things to do yesterday evening, I spotted something scribbled upon the original plasterwork, preserved beneath a layer of a varnish-like substance. A closer inspection revealed it to be a signature: G. Fitzgerald.

I have tried to capture the writing in the picture displayed above, but it is remarkably difficult to photograph. You can probably just about make out the letters and the style of the handwriting, which speaks instantly of earlier days. The way that the letters are formed reminds me very much of my grandmother's script, in fact. She was born in 1906, and Ink Towers popped into the world five years before that, so I have spent the day wondering if G. Fitzgerald played a part in the early years of my house.

Was he one of the builders or first plasterers? (I say 'he' because I doubt very much that the construction industry in South Wales had any female members in 1901. I doubt very much, actually, that it has any in 2008.) Or was G. Fitzgerald the first owner, or one of the first owners, of the building now in my possession? What does -- or did, I suppose -- the 'G.' stand for? Was the person who made the mark upon the wall male or female? Old or young?

I cannot answer those questions at present, in the present. I could, in time, check through the archived censuses to see if a G. Fitzgerald ever lived at my address. I could, in case my dating is out by several decades, ask my neighbour, who has lived in her house since something like 1952, if she can remember a Mr or Mrs Fitzgerald ever occupying Ink Towers. I could, finally, ring the company that has been working on the loft for the last few weeks to check if its employees have been using their tea breaks to create an elaborate graffiti hoax. ('He seems to like fountain pens, boys. And he sits downstairs writing on smooth paper and rehearsing pocket square techniques while we're up here working our fingers to the bone. Let's mess with his mind.')

There is, however, one thing of which I am fairly sure: it looks very much as if G. Fitzgerald signed his or her name with a fountain pen. I'd have to strip off the varnish and undertake a series of complicated chemical tests to be certain, of course, but the lines seem too broad and bold to have been created by a pencil. Ink Towers was perhaps Ink Towers long before I took up residence here, in other words. Perhaps I was drawn here by a mysterious force. Maninkfest destiny. If you ink it, they will come.

The discovery of the signature has led me once again to consider the relationship between writing and death. As I have noted here on many previous occasions, the written word has a distinct advantage over its live, spoken counterpart: it can outlast the one who forms it. As soon as I shape words with a pen, those written marks take on a life of their own that in no way relies upon mine. They can carry on signifying without me, without my being in the world.

The archaic style of G. Fitzgerald's handwriting leads me to believe that he or she is no longer alive. I may be wrong, of course, but those elegant letters simply don't conjure up the modern world when I gaze upon them. Was he or she aware at the moment of inscription that a future occupant of his or her house -- perhaps someone yet to be born -- would one day study the scribble and wonder? Wasn't that eventuality assumed as soon as the pen touched the wall, in fact? Kilroy was here. Was here. Is no longer. Will not be again.

There is a ghostly twist to this thrilling tale, dear readers. The reason that the signature was so difficult to photograph is that the new staircase to the converted loft hangs over the wall where G. Fitzgerald left his or her mark. The shadow of the steps falls heavily over the point where pen once touched wall. And hidden away beneath wood and plasterboard are the undersides of those steps, the core of the structure, as it were. Where each horizontal plank touches the newel (a technical term that I learnt last week), someone in the workshop where the staircase was made to order has written my surname in bold black ink, presumably to make sure that all of the pieces ended up in the right place. Because the belly of the staircase has now been boxed in, this spiralling repetition of my name is hidden from sight. But perhaps one day, long after I have returned to nothingness, a future occupant of this house -- perhaps someone who has yet to be born -- will refurbish the property and strip back the staircase to the loft. He or she will then discover a repeated name, a series of marks left in ink, and might wonder for a moment about the owner of that name, the owner of the house, the owner then of nothing. Ink will eventually represent me, loftily take my place. The writing is on the wall.

Inks flaunting their immortality today: Noodler's Aircorp Blue-Black; Mont Blanc Racing Green.

PS: American readers of Ink Quest should feel free to read out this cheery, life-affirming post as they gather around their dinner tables for the Thanksgivink feast today.

Djinnk

The following night, the readers of Ink Quest said to the captain of the Penquod, 'Please, master, if you are not sleepy, tell us the rest of the story of the skip and the ballpoint pen.' The captain replied, 'With the greatest pleasure'.

I realized this morning, dear readers, that I have not completed the tale of the skip and the ballpoint pen which I began in the entry of 13 November, where I described how I had deposited a biro in the skip outside Ink Towers, hoping that someone would take it and leave something thrilling in its place. Like Shahrazad, then, I will continue my 'strange and entertaining story'; my life depends upon it.

As the loft conversion is now almost finished, the skip was removed from the street yesterday morning. Before it was collected, I checked on the status of the ballpoint pen, and I was astonished to see that it had disappeared. It may simply have slipped into the depths of the rubbish, of course, but there is always the possibility that it caught the eye of a light-fingered passerby. With eager heart, I looked for a bottle of ink that had been left in exchange for the biro, but I could find nothing new apart from an empty Pot Noodle container, a few newspapers, and a lampshade.

Bitterly disappointed, I retired inside and carried on working at my desk while the carpenter and the electrician completed the last few items on their list. (All that remains to be done now is the fitting of a couple of vents to the roof; the wooden flooring will then be laid over the weekend.) Shortly after lunch, they packed up their tools and said their last goodbyes. Surrounded by silence for the first time in weeks, I crept upstairs to inspect the transformed space.

The first thing that caught my eye was not the craftsmanship, the light streaming in through the new Velux windows, or the now-dry chimney breast that I had varnished with wild abandon on Sunday evening; it was, rather, a ballpoint pen lying on the floor next to one of the cupboard doors. It was covered in a strange dust. A close inspection -- I didn't touch it, of course -- revealed that it had not originated from within Ink Towers. A photograph of this strange, monstrous object is displayed above, dear readers.

While the pen looked nothing like the one that I had left in the skip, it remained a member of the hideous ballpoint family, and I suddenly felt as if I were caught up in magical tale reminiscent of something found in The Arabian Nights. I threw away a biro, only to find a replacement mysteriously appear some days later. Has the Penquod fallen under the spell of an ink-loathing djinn? Am I being punished by an evil spirit for using this blog to denounce ballpoint pens with such vehemence and regularity? Will every Bic that I cast away return in another form to haunt and taunt me? Have all of my throwaway remarks about biros caused me now to be unable to throw away biros?

I have been too scared to return to the loft since yesterday afternoon. Even the cats, who are normally curious to explore any new space or object, have chosen to remain on the first two levels of Ink Towers. I inkitially thought of gathering together the crew members of the Penquod for an exorcism, but then I remembered one of the most famous tales found in some versions of The Arabian Nights (but not, inkidentally, in the earliest fourteenth-century manuscript upon which Husain Haddawy bases his wonderful edition). As countless children learn at a very early age, when the mother of 'Ala Al-Din (or Aladdin) rubs the magic lamp that has come into her son's possession, a powerful genie appears and asks what is wished of it.

With this classic story in mind, I am about to creep up to the loft. In my hand I will hold an empty bottle of ink. As soon as I catch sight of the biro, I will unscrew the lid and gently rub the glass. If all goes according to plan, a djinn -- no, a djinnk -- will appear at this point and usher the pen into the bottle. I will then close the lid and walk the streets until I find a skip into which to throw the object.

But morning overtook the captain of the Penquod, and he lapsed into silence. Then his readers said, 'Captain, what an amazing and entertaining story!' The captain replied, 'What is this compared with what I shall tell you tomorrow night if the djinnk spares me and lets me live!'

Ink in use today: Noodler's Nightshade; Noodler's Aircorp Blue-Black.

Receipt

Are you receiving me?

While I was pampering myself with rich, decadent, Truefitt and Hill shaving cream this morning, I heard an item on the radio about how British shoppers will need to inspect their receipts carefully in coming weeks if, as is suspected, the Chancellor of the Exchequer announces today that VAT is to be cut from 17.5% to 15% in an attempt to stave off the recession. We will need, said the reporter, to check that we're not being overcharged.

Coincidentally, I found myself scrutinizing a receipt towards the end of last week, dear readers, thus proving yet again that I am streets ahead of received trends. The slip of paper in question is displayed above, with certain details (to which I will refer in time) obscured. Tax, however, was not taxing my mind.

I left for work on Thursday morning feeling decidedly underdressed. Regular readers of Ink Quest will know that I have recently developed an obsession with silk pocket squares; I now find that I am simply unable to wear a suit without a flourish flamboyantly flaming from my breast pocket. I faced a traumatic difficulty that day, however, for I was desperate to wear for the first time a tie that I had bought a few days earlier, but I suddenly realized that I had no pocket square to flaunt alongside it. The rule, I have learnt, is that the silk should not match the main colour of the tie, but should, rather, echo one of the background shades. As my new tie has small white spots, I realized that a white pocket square was required, and I decided to call into the centre of Cardiff to purchase such an object on my way to work.

As I stood on the platform and then sat on the train, I felt that a part of me was missing. My briefcase contained the habitual three fountain pens, each filled with a different shade of ink, so all was well in that respect, but my square-free pocket felt achingly empty. Devoid of square, I was even more of a square peg in a round hole than usual.

When I stepped off the train at Cardiff Central, I began to weigh up my options. Where, I asked myself, would be the place most likely to sell white silk pocket squares? Ruling out all of the hip and trendy clothing outlets, I set my sights on the least fashionable place in town: Calders. Here is a store so defiantly archaic that it has no website. Here is a store that has not changed a jot in as long as I can remember. (A quick Google search reveals photographic evidence that it stood on Churchill Way until at least the mid-1960s, but my memory, which goes back no further than the 1970s, knows nothing but the present Duke Street location.) Here is a store that sits stubbornly across the road from Cardiff Castle, mocking the battlements for their hollow modern stylings. Here is a store whose survival in the twenty-first century is something of a miracle.

I don't know how much longer Calders will last, for the ground floor was completely deserted when I walked through the doors on Thursday morning. I was, as a result, immediately approached by one of the shop's magnificently polite and helpful assistants, who showed me a selection of white silk pocket squares. I made my choice and handed over my debit card. It was it this point that one of the most gloriously anachronistic processes that I have seen in quite some time sprang (well, tortoised) into action.

Instead of taking my card over to the computerized device that I could see on one of the other counters, the assistant produced a old-fashioned receipt book and began to write on one of the slips. I watched in amazement as he noted the price and description of the item, then added my name to the top of the receipt, and even copied out the number and expiry date of my card in full. Only when this meticulous work was over did he walk slowly across to the machine, swipe my card, and ask me to enter my PIN. I was then given the two receipts and thanked for my custom.

In an age where speed and ruthless efficiency in the marketplace are valued, the Calders approach to receipts is refreshingly, defiantly slow and inefficient. Let me be perfectly clear: I mean this to be received as a glowing compliment. I love the fact that the shop continues to issue handwritten receipts in the era of quickly printed slips. I love, too, how it effectively invites its customers to choose which format they think is better; there's simply no need for two receipts, after all. (The assistant did seem slightly uncomfortable with the computerized device, so I think I know where his affections lie.)

I have just one complaint, and here, dear readers, is where ink finally makes its dawdling entrance. As you can see in the image of the handwritten receipt displayed above, the assistant completed the slip in ballpoint pen. While I have nothing but admiration for the shop's archaic system, and while I (unlike some of my chuckling colleagues) am very happy with my new pocket square, I was very disappointed to learn that this temple to tradition permits the use of the modern monster that is the biro. Why pollute a store that makes so few concessions to the post-war period with a recently invented writing instrument? Why not slow things down and roll back the wheel of history even further with fountain pens and inkwells upon the counters? Why not complete each receipt with a nib cut to imitate script from earlier times? Why not acknowledge a purchase with an ink that gives the impression of dusty antiquity? (Diamine Indigo would work rather well, I feel.)

My dictionary inkforms me that an archaic meaning of 'receipt' is 'recipe'. This seems fitting, as Calders has, in my opinion, just one ingredient out of place in its current recipe for retail. Almost everything is perfect: its clothing takes no account of developments in fashion since about 1962 (here be no leisurewear); its staff, unlike assistants in virtually every other shop in Britain, actually seem to know something about the stock; and, above all, it issues handwritten receipts. All that is missing is the real ink. I would email the store a link to this undoubtedly helpful post, but, as the business has no presence on the web, I doubt that it would be in a position to acknowledge receipt.

Inks in use today: Noodler's Nightshade; Caran d'Ache Grand Canyon.

Skipping

Who would have thought that a skip could be so much fun?

Users of real ink tend to hate moments when the pen skips, when the nib moves across the page but fails to leave an inky mark. A skip, that is to say, is usually something to avoid at all costs. But the ongoing loft conversion at Ink Towers has generated a skip that people seem unwilling and unable to avoid. I am referring, dear readers, to the large metal container -- the skip -- pictured above, into which the workmen have been throwing bits of old wood, insulation, piping, and so on. (When they're not eating biscuits and drinking tea, that is; they're currently devouring an entire packet of chocolate digestives every day, and I've found it easier simply to rewire my kettle so that it's constantly on.)

This humble skip has apparently skipped its way to the centre of the community, for people keep using it to dump their own unwanted goods (plant pots, a clothes horse, newspapers, and cushions, for instance; most of what you can see in the receptacle has nothing to do with my loft conversion). More bizarrely, several times every day I notice someone digging around in the rubbish to look for anything of value. A couple of nights ago, a delivery van from a local pizzeria stopped on two separate occasions, and the driver got out to fill the back of the van with bits of wood. He was in up to his elbows. I know that the firm does not have a wood-burning oven, so I have made a mental note never to order one of their pizzas again. Yesterday, meanwhile, a little old man knocked on the door and asked if he could load up on off-cuts for some of his pensioner friends who have real fires in their houses. 'It will save them a bit of money in this cold weather', he said. I told him to take what he wanted, but only realized later that I should also have directed him to the pizzeria. ('Just ask for a thin-crust Purloined Plank. Oh, and you might want to try a side order of Dubious Hygiene.')

Longtime readers of Ink Quest will know that I very easily become obsessed by inanimate objects (pens, shaving creams, silk pocket squares), so it will come as no surprise that I have developed an all-consuming fascination with the skip. Every time I step outside the house, I eagerly peek inside to see what has arrived and what has disappeared since my last inspection. And whenever there's the slightest noise in the street at night, I leap out of bed to see if it's the sound of the skip being raided or filled under cover of darkness.

It amuses me that I -- who spend my days doing everything that I can to avoid community, social interaction, and gatherings -- have, thanks to my skip, become the core of the local community. If it's not happening in or around my skip, it's simply not happening. I, skipper of the skip, am the magical figure around whom all life in [NAME OF TOWN DELETED TO PREVENT THE SKIP BECOMING A GLOBAL TOURIST ATTRACTION] revolves.

Beyond that, I find the social network and system of exchanges that have sprung up around this giant waste receptacle to be endlessly fascinating. Is the town filled with people who walk around looking for skips to raid or use? Are the contents of skips commonly accepted to be public property? Does the company that delivered the object to my house post addresses of newly deposited skips on a secret internet discussion forum? (The curious started to arrive not long after the skip itself, so there's clearly some kind of insider trading going on. You'd have to be a true skiptic to put it all down to coincidence.) Is there a formula to determine how long it will be before any dumped object is purloined by a passerby? Is there a word to describe the act of stealing something from a skip? (Skipping?)

But what does this have to do with ink? (I should have opened this post with a note about the impatient being able to skip straight to the seventh paragraph, I suppose.) A great deal, dear readers. Because my skip has essentially become a point of exchange -- someone dumps an item, and another person then comes along, takes it, and possibly leaves something else in its place -- I have rounded up an old ballpoint pen from the back of a drawer, and I have placed it as casually as possible on top of the rubbish. It rightly belongs there, of course, but my hope is that a biro-loving passerby will pick it up and simultaneously dump an unwanted fountain pen or a bottle of ink, which I will quickly rescue and welcome into the hold of the Penquod. (If you're reading this, have recognized my skip, and wish to replace my Bic with some ink, I'd quite like, dear Santa, some Noodler's Prime of the Commons Blue-Black. The Writing Desk is about to receive its first delivery of this intriguing colour, and I'm desperate to get my inky hands on a bottle.)

I'm hoping for a fruitful inkschange, in other words, and I'll be peering through the window every few minutes throughout the night to check the status of the snare. If I had a portable webcam, I'd set up a real-time 'Skip Watch' Skypecast. (If you're a regular reader of this blog about nothing, you'd find the footage captivating, I'm sure.) Better still, I should attach a cardiograph to my chest and broadcast the results as a live feed to Ink Quest. You'd know that the biro had been replaced by ink as soon as you saw the beat of my longing heart skip.

Inks in use today: Caran d'Ache Grand Canyon; Noodler's Eternal Blue.

Separation Inkxiety

Yesterday was a truly historic day. The world changed forever and will never be the same again.

I am referring, of course, to the loft conversion at Ink Towers, which began about a week ago. Until yesterday, the workmen had spent most of the time up in the loft itself, preparing the floor, putting in Velux windows, and so on. But work entered a new phase yesterday, for a large hole was cut in the ceiling of the main bedroom and the landing, and a section of the wall that divides the two spaces was removed, as you can see from the dramatic photograph posted above. This was to make way for the new staircase, which is being assembled and installed as I type these words.

Because cutting through a ceiling is a messy business, I was advised to retreat from my office -- whose entrance you can see in the bottom left-hand corner of the photograph -- and to take refuge downstairs while the airborne toxic event was created inside the bizarre plastic bubble that the workmen had created with giant plastic sheets. And so, pens, book, and Clairefontaine notebook in hand, I moved down to the dining table and carried on with my work while almighty hell was unleashed upstairs.

After about an hour, I started to get anxious. Some would put this down to autistic obsession, no doubt, but I would locate the source of my unease in the fact that I was temporarily unable to reach my ink (which is stored in a large box in my office). I was suffering, that is to say, from a terrible case of separation inkxiety. Although I had two fountain pens on the table in front of me -- a Pelikan M200 and a Sailor Sapporo -- and although they had been filled to the brim with ink earlier that day, I began to wonder how I would manage if I wrote so much that they both ran dry, or if I simply became bored with the colours and needed to change them as a matter of urgency. As each new word unfurled from the nib, my anxiety grew. Would this, I fretted, be the mark with which the pen gave up the ghost?

In the end, the airborne toxic event was scurried away before I ran out of ink or had a change of heart about my choice of colours, and I regained access to my office and my precious ink box late in the afternoon. For once, that is to say, there was a happy ending. The latest phase of the loft conversion has revealed some of the original brickwork of Ink Towers, moreover, and I have taken great delight in inkspecting elements of the house that have, I believe, not seen the light of day since the building was constructed in 1901. The bricks that you can see in the photograph posted above, for instance, have been hidden away for over a hundred years. I like to think that when they last looked out upon the world, they saw someone holding a fountain pen, as would have been perfectly common at the time, and that the architect's plans that decided their destiny were drawn up with luxurious ink.

Perhaps, though, I should simply move out of Ink Towers while construction is underway. I like my routines, and I like to have control over the space in which I live and work, so something as radical as a loft conversion is bound to be deeply disruptive for a being as fragile as I. And it turns out that there is a perfect place for me to take up temporary residence. Thanks to Michigan-based honorary Penquod crew member Gerry, I now know that there is a town in Arkansas quite simply called Ink. Gerry spotted a reference to it in a review of Roads to Quoz a new book by William Least Heat-Moon. Here is how the reviewer inktroduces the curious geographical fact:

Mr. Heat-Moon is the kind of guy who cannot drive by a handmade sign advertising "Tupelo Honey and Mayhaw Jelly" without heading down the side road, buying a jar and spending a good part of the day talking to the folks selling it. He's an avid listener and compulsive recorder of linguistic oddities and quirks. In Arkansas he mulls over its rich menu of town names: Greasy Corner, Figure Five, Number Nine, Possum Grape, Tomato, Hog Eye, Kingdoodle Knob, Pencil Bluff and Ink. The story about Ink is that when it came time for the citizens of the town to vote for an official name, their ballot had the instructions: "Write in ink." Probably apocryphal, he admits, but he can't resist passing it on.

I have consulted Google Maps, and Ink sits like a stubborn blot on Highway 88:



I am about to ring my local travel agent to check the availability of direct flights from Cardiff International Airport (essentially a large shed, a few picnic tables, and some spare tarmac probably left over from the construction of the M4) to Ink, Arkansas. I will be leaving my bottles of ink behind, it's true, but I'll never be far from ink in Ink.

Inks in use today: Noodler's Standard Brown; Diamine Grey.

Confinkdence

May I confide in you?

I happened to be reading an article in last weekend's Sunday Times some days ago, dear readers, in which the author revealed some of the secrets used by top actors in order to exude supreme confidence. While I am not particularly interested in being a man of great confidence -- being a great confidence man is much closer to the truth ... or so I would have you believe -- I read on out of curiosity.

I was particularly struck by the 'Actors' tips for life' with which the article concluded. The first of these was: Never stand with your arms folded. It looks defensive. I'm clearly destined for nothingness, for I regularly stand with my arms folded as a matter of principle, especially when I am forced to talk to people, because it seems to me that defensiveness is the only sensible option. The great Roland Barthes was right, I feel, when he said, in a course given at the Collège de France in 1977-8, that 'there is always a terrorism of the question; a power is implied in every question. The question denies the right not to know or the right to indeterminate desire'. Whoever poses a question, he continues, entraps the other person in a dilemma: to answer or not to answer. And the latter offers no satisfactory escape, for simply refusing to respond 'very quickly leads the one who doesn't answer to death, erasure, or madness'. 'What we must do', he concludes, '[…] is to learn how to denaturalize questioning'. Where better to begin than with folded arms?

But it was the third tip that really caught my eye: To ooze charisma, imagine you have a wonderful secret you are keeping to yourself. I make no secret of my love of secrets; it has been listed in my 'Interests' on the right-hand side of this page for as long as I can remember. The only problem is that secrets, I feel, are meant to be revealed, and the pleasure in telling a secret inevitably becomes regret at the simultaneous death of that secret. (Isn't this sense of loss running right through 'My Secret Love', one of the highlights of Calamity Jane? Isn't there something desperately sad about the line, 'And my secret love's no secret any more'? Wasn't it better when it was secret, dear Doris?)

I think that the tip about imagining 'a wonderful secret' really struck a chord this week because of a dramatic experience involving a fountain pen and a silk pocket square. Regular readers of this blog will know that I have recently become mildly obsessed by pocket squares, and I can now report that I have made the effete leap into the world of silk flamboyance. Yes, dear readers, after many hours of research, I crept out into Cardiff in heavy disguise and splashed out on an absurdly decadent Crombie pocket square. The Inkette has since bought me two more, so the collection is puffing out like, well, a silk handkerchief.

I kept the excessive objects secreted in a drawer for several days, taking them out at regular intervals to marvel at their majesty. But they're too pretty to wear!, I kept saying to myself as I folded them carefully and returned them to storage. Secretly, I think, I was a little unsure about going public with my new identity. (Is this how cross-dressers feel just before stepping out in drag for the first time?) The pocket square is something of a dying animal, and I believe that it disappeared almost entirely from the South Wales area following The Great Silk Lynching of '56, in which a group of square-flaunting gentlemen were rounded up, forced to watch a rugby match, and run out of Cardiff by a mob of sportswear-clad hooligans. Anxious questions ran through my head as I tried to pluck up courage to walk out into the world with my silk in place. Will people point and laugh? Will my beloved square be torn from my pocket by burly thugs and trampled underfoot? What have I got myself into? Is it too late to go back to a life of empty breast pockets?

After downing six espressos for confidence on Thursday morning ('Italian courage', I like to call it), I arranged my square in my pocket, donned my overcoat, and stepped out into the world. As I walked through the city with my coat wrapped around me, I found myself feeling more confident than ever before. It was, I soon realized, all down to the silk square that was hidden beneath my outerwear. I had a secret, and none of the passersby had the slightest inkling. At one point, I even slipped my hand inside my coat to check that the square was still in place. It was, and my stature grew further as I felt the silk between my fingers. Citizens!, I wanted to cry. You are completely unaware that I am sporting a silk pocket square! A pocket square made of silk, I tell you!

As I was removing my hand, my fingers brushed against a smooth piece of plastic. To my surprise, I found that my Noodler's-Walnut-filled Sailor 1911 fountain pen was still clipped to the inside pocket of my overcoat, where I had placed it a day or two earlier. A quick pat of my other pocket revealed the presence of a Clairefontaine notebook that had been stored there at the same time as the 1911. What more, I sighed, could I possibly need? I was strolling proudly down the street with three magnificent secrets burning holes in my pockets. My heart was beating proudly beneath silk, ink, and paper. No sniper's bullet or sharpened biro, I decided, stood a chance against this mighty shield. I felt inkvincible, and I believe that the secret nature of the three sacred items contributed greatly to my newfound sense of stature. To walk through the world with pockets secretly overflowing with ink, silk, and paper is to become inkmortal. By secreting them, by keeping them in confidence, I magically grew in confidence.

Inks lending confidence today: Noodler's Walnut; Herbin Bleu Nuit.

PS (4 November): Apropos of nothing in particular, apart from the interest of several readers of Ink Quest in road signs, I cannot resist sharing with you this wonderful story from the BBC Wales news site about things getting spectacularly lost in translation.