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Black Sheaffer Down

Posted by Dirck on 9 December, 2013

I committed a serious error last night.  I attempted to do my day’s journal entry sitting on the couch.

The conventional story would see me becoming over-comfy, negligent, and thus applying ink to couch instead of paper.  Wrong!  Comfy-ness was not my nemesis in this setting; I was beset by the twin menaces of location and offspring.

My place on the couch was at an exposed end, you see.  One end near a wall, the other sticking out into what passes in our wee home for traffic, and when I say “what passes” I mean the space between the couch and the other wall is not very broad.  In terms of volume, our house has plenty, thanks to the other element– my son.  I’ve mentioned that he’s an active fellow, and he spends roughly three hours before bedtime running at close to top speed, with occasional stops for refills of water, food, and mayhem-inspiring cartoons.  He has, for example, never sat through a showing of Cars 2, because each race in the film commands him to circle the wall between kitchen and living room.  I suspect he has no idea how the Italian race ended or how Prof. Zündapp came to be captured in London.

There I sat, like a dummy, with a twenty-five kilo cannonball whizzing past at roughly fifteen second intervals.  Should have known better, right?  Well… probably, although I’m pretty adept at cringing away from him at the right moment.  However, one of the things that had him worked into his nightly frenzy last night was a visit to the paternal grandparents’ house– he was crammed with spaetzl, beef, and love.  It was the latter that surprised me, because what laid me low was an expression of affection.

Again, I should have seen it coming, because he is a loving chap, and given to expressing it– I expect one day to have the law put on me because I’ve been seen kissing a little kid in a mall food court, and to also get no traction with “But officer, he started it!”– and those expressions are frequently extremely physical.

In the current case, he swarmed up over the arm of the couch and wrapped around my head.  Bending rather than just let my neck snap under the sudden weight, I supported him with my left hand while thrusting out my right in the general direction of my wife.  “Take the pen!” cried a muffled voice.

I felt her grab it, and released.  She had grabbed the cap, which on the very elderly Sheaffer 8C I was using last night posts quite nicely.  The actual pen was held by neither of us, and I actually got to see it pause Fudd-like for a moment before pitching nose down for the floor.  Unhappy pappy.

To finish on a positive note, though, or indeed a series of them that might even compose a ditty: I am a tower of restraint, and did no more to my son than admonish him for an act that would have destroyed any of his grandparents;  the pen was in use to run it out, and had almost no ink to contribute to the rather elderly, needing-replacement carpet; Amodex works well on a wool/Sailor Jentle blue-black blend; later examination shows the original version of the Sheaffer Lifetime point is remarkably sturdy, and took no injury from its fall.

I urge other owners of really old Sheaffers not to test that last point for themselves.

Today’s pen, quivering in every limb: Pelikan 120
Today’s ink: Pelikan Brilliant Brown

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