There was a beautiful, big, black Remington typewriter in my father’s office. It was used by a pretty lady, called Thora. She typed business letters, lists of stock in the shop, accounts and so on. The typewriter was always clicking away, but sometimes I would come into the office, and see the typewriter standing there, unused and silent. This typewriter fascinated me. One day, when I was about 10 years old, during the school holidays, I didn’t have much to do so I climbed on the bus that used to stop near the firestation, near where we lived at 031 Percy Stewart Str and rode to my father’s shop. I entered the office, as was my habit and found the typewriter standing there all forlorn. It may sound ridiculous to most people for a person to be scared to do such a paltry thing as to climb on a chair in my father’s office. But it’s a fact that for me it took a lot of courage to sit on Thora’s chair in front of the typewriter and even more courage to start banging on the keys. I was a v