John Gibson: Do hang on to that old hurdy-gurdy

True to type, I was last to switch off the lights when we flitted from North Bridge down the road to Holyrood.

By The Newsroom
Tuesday, 22nd May 2012, 1:00 pm

They knew it was me because all they could hear was the clatter of my typewriter. Just me and the removal men.

This was a million years before the computer, bear in mind (what’s a computer?) and it’s a tug at the heart strings to see that vintage typewriters are being upgraded so they can be used in the old-fashioned way, for typing through an ink ribbon, into a computer. Upgraded typewriters are priced from just under 500 quid. So that cobwebbed old hurdy-gurdy in your attic could be worth a bob or two. The ribbons doubtless will have dried up.

Light relief

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You might dare rate my ancestry somewhat bizarre. My father was a conductor. Not with a baton. No, on the 12 buses serving Portobello to Corstorphine.

My grandad was a professional mole strangler and my great-grandfather was a part-time lamplighter. He trimmed the wicks on the gas lights in the Canongate.

Stout, sturdy men. All well over 15 stones. So you’re mystified, if not intrigued, that they produced a ten-stone wimp churning out a daily column as lightweight as this.

Grow for it

My girlfriend Fleur fawns over me. She thinks I’m a pansy. My name’s down for an allotment, by the way. Want to grow my very own vegetables.

Afterwords . .

. . . it was Adrian Mitchell, one of the Liverpool poets era no longer with us, who declared: “Most people ignore most poetry because most poetry ignores most people.” How true.