An off-the-cuff post on the cuff.
I left you in a state of suspense earlier this week, dear readers, as I reported that I was about to leave for my annual external examining trip to an unidentified university in the north of England. More specifinkally, I reported that I was trying to choose the ink that I would take with me for the signing of the forms that announce students' degree results.
I have now returned to Ink Towers, and I can reveal that I ended up selecting Noodler's Walnut. For the reasons outlined in my previous missive, I gave serious thought to Omas Sepia -- the Great Brown Whale -- but I eventually settled upon Walnut because it seemed wrong to break the Noodler's run. (Students graduating in 2007 saw their results endorsed by me in Noodler's Eternal Brown, while last year's group were treated to Noodler's Sequoia. 'Mum, dad, I got the result I wanted ... but forget about that. You should have seen the ink that the external examiner used to sign the sheets!')
Yesterday morning, then, after an evening in which my host department drank so much wine with dinner that one member of staff fell down -- or possibly up; no reliable witness could be found -- some stairs and was last seen on his way to hospital (my teetotalism seems to baffle and amuse them), we assembled for the annual ritual of determining degree classifications and, more importantly, signing the paperwork. At the end of the meeting, the departmental secretary presented me with the various pieces of paper needing my signature. I uncapped my Sailor Sapporo and unleashed the lovely dark brown ink. 'Ah', she said, 'now I remember. You use those funny inks'. She looked down at my scrawl. 'It doesn't seem to be drying', she noted.
She was right. The university in question is clearly equipped with the paper least receptive to Noodler's Walnut. It didn't look particularly shiny, but something about it was refusing to allow the ink to dry properly. 'Have you got any blotting paper with you?', asked the secretary. 'I'm afraid not', I replied, making a mental note to spend some of my examining fee on an Herbin rocker blotter for use at next year's meeting.
At this point, one of the professors in the department, who's a good friend of mine, came over to see what was happening and how I had managed to bring the entire end-of-year examining process to a halt. 'Oh, of course', he sighed. 'You and your bloody ink fetish.' 'You knew all about it when you appointed me', I replied. 'I have always been open and honest about my perverse practices. Besides, what kind of shambolic department are you running here? Where's your supply of blotting paper?'
'I think that we stopped using it in about 1964', he said. 'But I have an idea', he then added, looking sceptically at my French cuffs. (He had told me when I arrived that I was overdressed for the occasion.) 'Why don't you just use your flashy cuffs to soak up the excess ink?'
In the end, the secretary managed to dry the ink by waving the sheets in the air for a minute or two. My cuffs, that is to say, escaped unscathed. But my friend's remark started me thinking, and I spent the four-hour train journey home yesterday afternoon plotting -- nay, blotting -- the launch of a range of shirts for users of real ink, for inkthusiasts. These garments will still have double cuffs, which are one of life's absolute essentials, but, while most of each shirt will be made of luxurious cotton, the cuffs themselves will be formed from multiple layers of blotting paper. When the wearer has, say, signed his or her name (yes, dear readers, my clothing range will be available for both sexes), a cuff may be gently pressed against the ink. The marked layer of blotting paper can then be peeled away and discarded, leaving the inkthusiast with an immaculate cuff.
I must leave you now, dear readers, for I need to roll up my sleeves and get to work on the finer points of my design for the cuff blotter. There are, after all, complicated matters of chemise-try to consider. I only hope that my great scheme does not end in disaster and blot my cuffybook. I must be sure not to lose my inkvestors' money; I don't need even more people getting shirty with me.
Ink awaiting cuff today: Noodler's Walnut.
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