In the window of an antiquarian book store I saw an old Olympia portable typewriter, and I became sentimental. My father who was a journalist had almost the same one. So I see myself as a four year old boy standing next to my fathers big wooden desk watching him beat the keys in a staccato rhythm. Every now and then there was the ring-a-ding of a little bell. It was music to my ears. Many years later I had my own portable typewriter. I never realized how much I had loved the clickity-clack of typing, it only dawned on me when I looked at that Olympia in the window. I suddenly remembered the pleasure of hacking on those keys. The thing about the typewriter was that you could not erase what you had written. That forced you to prepare in your head what you planned to put on paper. You tried to avoid having to start all over again. I admit that that computer has made my life as a writer much easier. Still I considered for a moment entering the shop. Then I shrugged and moved on. The typewriter is history, just like the shorthand pad, the copy paper and the teleprinter. Why then do I miss it like a lost friend?