Moving on a few years to when I was 8, this would have been about 1973, I got my first typewriter for my birthday, after months of pestering and begging finally paid off. It was a Petite and came in a little carrying case.
My love for stories was obvious by then as I had amassed quite a lot of note books (none of which have survived) and left a trail of empty pens and broken pencils wherever I went. I even remember scribbling part of a story on my bedroom wall, much to my parent's annoyance.
Anyway, back to the typewriter. It was beautiful and magical and what used to take me 20 minutes to write with a pen now took me two hours to tap out laboriously with one finger.
I was cream and beige and very noisy. I used to have an uncanny knack of taping whenever my parents wanted to watch something on tv, so very quickly I was banished to my room and tapped away happily with my Pinky and Perky wallpaper watching over me.
Stories filled my head and I was often told off at school for not paying attention, although I did win a prize, I think it was a stationary set, for one of my stories in an English competition.
It was about a girl who was bullied, as I was myself, for being different. I wasn't sporty and would only run if someone was chasing me, which happened quite a lot. Nor was I academically gifted. I wasn't pretty, so didn't fit in with those who were and I wasn't clever enough to be nerdy, I didn't belong to the chess club, so I was a bit of a loner.
Anyway, in my story, this girl was different; she had magic powers. The story was probably influenced by the tv series Bewitched, but anyone who upset her got turned into an insect and got stepped on. Part three tomorrow.
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