I like machines. Always have. Maybe it’s to do with my being a tomboy.
When I was about 7 or 8 years old, my mother’s brother (who was living with us) bought a manual typewriter. It was an Olivetti or a Remington.
I loved playing on it, learning the right fingering of the keys like one would with a piano, then typing out my name in full.
The day arrived for the demonstration. The whole family gathered round the table to watch me type out my name — with my eyes closed! I didn’t know it then, but that was touch-typing!
I was so little I had to stand on a stool so that my arms could drop down (rather than raised, crooked), to make it easier to type smoothly and comfortably.
(Singapore, early 1960s)
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