Down in the basement I open the creaky door of the storage cupbaord. There's so much junk in here I struggle to know where to start with unpacking it all. Old boxes, rugs, books, wires, pots full of pennies (which I should really take to the post office to be counted up - probably a small fortune altogether), stacks of old christmas and birthday cards all lie in the way of what I came down here for. If you want it, you'll have to get through us first, they silently scream at me.
I set about removing things from the cupboard and placing them as neat as I can out of the way. Before long I'm standing in the middle of a semi-circle of cupboard items with the typewriter staring back at me. It's like the junk is constantly against me; first guarding access to the typewriter, now blocking escape from the basment. Nevertherless I am determined to get started with my novel so I heave out the scratched and battered old machine, wipe off the cobwebs and dust and put it down on the floor beside me. Now to repack the cupboard...carefully.
With more room to manouvre I pick up the typewriter once again and waddle up the stairs and close the basement door behind me with my backside. The machine looks beautiful in daylight. Although its colour is tarnished and it's covered in basement detritus and dust it still looks thoroughly inviting - oozing with character.
Now to get started with the old girl. I place it down on a table and pull up a chair. Reaching for a nearby drawer I pull out some paper to make some rough notes on and have some practice with before setting too on my novel. I slide the paper in and allow it to flop backwards so it sits comfortably in the carriage. The letters feel so satisfying as I delicately run my fingertips over the tops of them. I find myself building up to the first letter press - like a helicopter flying towards the egde of a cliff overlooking the Grand Canyon.
Suddenly I'm jolted out of my state of euphoria when the phone rings...