In my mind, it would be dark. And musty. The sounds outside muted as the door swung behind you. Once eyes adjusted to the dark, one would become aware of tables and shelves hosting irregular ranks of typewriters, not mustered to attention but cluttered and jumbled, tilted at angles and piled high. Towards the back, bisected carcasses, frames and rollers, disassembled ingenuity.
As Mel and James described this fantastical shop, lurking in the East of Singapore, images cascaded into my mind: a secret treasure, the joy of discovery. James described layers of meaning: glimpses further back into the shop for as yet undiscovered territories. To Mel, aficionado and collector, clearly more a pilgrimage than shopping trip.
There’s something visceral about typing on an old typewriter: an inherently outdated technology, nonetheless, for those of us old enough to remember, the sounds and sensations, the clacks and dings, the rattling…
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