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Typing in the Fifties Dad’s typewriter, like his car, my bike and Mum’s Singer, was British, portable and old, nineteen-thirty-ish, of dingy soft metal - object of pride, not much used. Set up on his card table and gently tapped it made the table shake. It carried his aura, the ‘educationist', till he let me practice. Soon it was mine as I managed to shuffle paper in round the black roller, watching how the tape lifted with each finger-tap. QWERTY! at first crazy, began to make sense and pace. Carbon paper for copies could be awkward and messy, but fun - though whether you typed black or red, copies always came out black. My first poems appeared in print-runs of three: crisp - blurry - faint. Then at eighteen, conscription - the Army made me a Signalman. For working on teleprinters touch-typing was taught us. At Papakura Camp summer passed in drill, rifle and Bren practice, and in the Signals hut hours acquiring typing skill. The slack old sergeant went outside for a smoke letting us type what we liked. I recall Milton’s ‘Lycidas’ and some Lawrence letters on rolls of yellow paper the teleprinter disgorged for me to savour. Not once was my machine linked to a receptive printer somewhere else. 'Tomorrow to fresh woods and pastures new’ reached no signalmen. Nor did war break out - just as well - defence without defences. New Zealand was still almost off the map - its powerful allies kept their Cold War mild in the south. We were shown movies compiled from old newsreels: Rommel’s defeat, D-Day, Berlin burning, the opening of the camps, piles of corpses, victory, peace. At night I’d watch my toes under my army blanket tapping typing till I slept and dreamed typing - just as when, a suburban postman during the Christmas rush, night after night I’d dream sorting mail. Back home I typed my heart out on Herrick, Congreve, Coleridge; Conquistadors - empire builders worse than the British had been, but more colourful. My first chosen typewriter would be Italian, more elegant than I could write.