Tie a faded ribbon round the old typewriter

I finished my main document early afternoon today. It is a blueprint really. The project, the shape and the design of the building so to speak, will be affected by this. Afterwards, stretching my back and straightening my shoulder blades, I did something very old fashioned. I printed it out. I had to hold it in my hand, you see, and read it as print on paper in order not only to verify its existence but to judge its stamina, its ability to withstand a traditional eye. So much of what we do now is in the digital ether. Engines are concealed. Computer architecture is closed. CCTV is forgotten: yet always there. It is refreshing sometimes, is it not, to go back to basics. Perhaps this is why I trust the hand of the artist so much. It not only shows us something important: it reminds us all of what we have forgotten. Still, the advance of science can be an extremely helpful thing. I think of our battles against disease, some of which we really do win. Meanwhile, I pause a moment and take in all the sounds appreciatively and far from the madding crowds. Our daughter is in our bedroom wittily putting on an accent which is not her own. Even closer to home, I can hear my fingers punching these keys. I have an awkward typing style. I am told it is quite fast for someone who only uses two fingers but I know I over-punch. This probably comes from writing reams of largely unread nonsense from about the age of ten on an old fashioned typewriter. After about the age of twelve, I think, when I had my own, the using and re-using of typewriter ribbon became par for the course. As a prolific writer of nonsense - some things never change - the dear ribbon kept coming to an end and, of course, I would have to rewind it. The harder my fingers punched the keys the rewound ribbon the clearer the words. That, too, was physical, I suppose, and therefore 'real'. Anyway, I can now hear our son teasing his sister. Cars, and sometimes larger vehicles, hum weightily along the road outside. The table creaks. Someone in the other room is sorting through books. I can hear them being stacked on shelves. Our daughter has a new book, I am reminded by this sound. She bought it this morning with the artist. She says she likes holding it in her hands. I take one last look at my printed document on the round red table. I turn in the chair. I look at the artist's work on the wall. Then I zap the TV on.