So I have this 1935 Olivetti Studio 42 to keep me company nowadays. I was wandering the aisles of a thrift store recently - the place I go to find an empty place for my mind to float in - when I happened upon it just right of the kitchen knives and left of the ladies' pocket books.

I approached the rare specimen - limited edition glossy finish - in something of a cloud; after all it was a thrift store, and here was the machine of my dreams. I wondered if this was how my brother had felt when he tested his first Big Wheel at the Sears store in Pasadena, or Marshall when he 'approached the eye like a soft boiled egg'. Could I touch it? Well, I did.

And now it's here in my office, believing in my ability to thunk out something gripping.

Yesterday, a client came by for an appointment and offered me twice the price I'd paid to acquire it. My poor Studio 42 - it immediately quivered. It doesn't want to be sold. It knows where its loyalties lie. 

In my line of work, your true friends are often those who speak the least but never leave your side; they are the ones who when you release the page from the platen and ask what they think, they spew out the truth to you no matter how it makes you feel.

The 42 is like that, and it's desk is right across from mine.