I bought a typewriter for £15 off eBay. No guarantee it would work save good faith and a sturdy brand name (Erika, like a Scandinavian masseuse), but it arrived and it does. Dom and I set it up and typed various hilarious titbits, housemates came in and smushed the keys to listen to the symphony of satisfactory thwacks and dings. I can see myself sitting at my desk typing furiously with hands aflutter a la Daisy on Spaced, or pushing horn-rimmed spectacles up my nose as I churn out a promised biographical sitcom for my cousin (a 20-something cosmopolitan sort making it big in love and life in the political capital of Europe). I’m excited about what Erika and I will accomplish after a bit of oil and a replacement ribbon at a push – but then again, she’s equally likely to sit there untouched as a mere amusement for visitors.