My pen actually ran out of ink today.  I’m still writing down thoughts first thought on the island, and sometimes get carried away.

Sarge bought me a red Moleskine Daily Planner that I am using as a journal.  I need the lined paper.  Or else my writing runs away with itself.  It does that even on lined paper.  And even though I ‘need’ the lines, I still find myself running out of ink on envelopes and bank statements.  And envelopes with bank statements in them.  Making my finances more useful than they may be otherwise.

As yet another pen wrote its last words today, I thought of the pens of my past.  One in particular, still my favourite.

On my 18th birthday, my father gave me a green marble Waterman pen.  He said it was because my Grandmother had the blue version.  Instead of keeping it in its lovely box and drooling over it periodically, I actually used it.  A lot.  Back in those days I wrote poetry and stories by hand, and wasn’t happy until I stacked hundreds of pages while stretched out on the floor of my room upstairs or at my father’s childhood desk by my window in the same room.  I also remember using it to write in my journal about the day I got accepted at University and for letters to pen pals.

I took the pen off to University and wrote some love poems and lecture notes with it.  Most of the time I would write the poems in the lectures and so I kept the coveted pen in the bottom of my slightly less coveted bag.  One day I took it out, and I noticed that I chipped it.  I was actually devastated, until I realised I liked things better when they had character.

One night on the way home from the library I was in the back of a taxi with my open bag at my feet.  As I was leaving, I heard a thump and I picked up what I thought I’d dropped.

When I got to my room, I looked in the bag for the pen and it wasn’t there.  I tore the place apart, even looked in my text books. I had convinced myself that I hadn’t carted it around that day and it was somewhere in the room.  I called and asked the taxi company if anyone had turned it in.

‘A pen?’

‘Yes, a pen.’

‘No.’

And so my favourite pen exists somewhere in Dundee, or anywhere.  I hope it’s still making sweet lines wherever it is.

I think I’ll type the rest of today’s words.  What did you write today?  And what did you write with?  What’s the story of your pen?

 

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