Christopher James
The Handwritten Times
The history of the illuminated manuscript
did not end with Gutenberg’s German psalter,
although it should have.
When the teletypewriters came clacking to a stop,
and the perforated reels sliced like tickertape,
the repairman just shrugged.
They drew lots to break the news:
if they wanted a newspaper,
they would have to write it themselves.
The editor took it on the chin. He drained the stationers
of Indian ink, harvested racks of cheap Parkers
and cleaned the shelves of Bics and rollerballs.
A calligrapher was summoned to etch the masthead.
He requested a pot of pale Chinese tea,
a silk hankerchief, a pair of ostrich feathers,
a scalpel, and half his fee up front.
Only his demand for six yellow tulips
was declined.
When word got round that a lad in the mailroom
had a legible eight point hand,
he was up at the newsdesk in minutes.
A journalist whispered at his side.
Nervous subs called out the spellings
for the words: coppice, manoeuvre and cyanide.
At two am, things looked bleak: cold compresses
were applied to wrists; dropped capitals crept in.
There was talk of doodling.
First thing, there was confusion,
then there was delight, as the first bundle dropped
from the slow moving van.
The people marvelled and paid their pence
for this minutely written, thirty-two page letter
addressed to every person in the land.
did not end with Gutenberg’s German psalter,
although it should have.
When the teletypewriters came clacking to a stop,
and the perforated reels sliced like tickertape,
the repairman just shrugged.
They drew lots to break the news:
if they wanted a newspaper,
they would have to write it themselves.
The editor took it on the chin. He drained the stationers
of Indian ink, harvested racks of cheap Parkers
and cleaned the shelves of Bics and rollerballs.
A calligrapher was summoned to etch the masthead.
He requested a pot of pale Chinese tea,
a silk hankerchief, a pair of ostrich feathers,
a scalpel, and half his fee up front.
Only his demand for six yellow tulips
was declined.
When word got round that a lad in the mailroom
had a legible eight point hand,
he was up at the newsdesk in minutes.
A journalist whispered at his side.
Nervous subs called out the spellings
for the words: coppice, manoeuvre and cyanide.
At two am, things looked bleak: cold compresses
were applied to wrists; dropped capitals crept in.
There was talk of doodling.
First thing, there was confusion,
then there was delight, as the first bundle dropped
from the slow moving van.
The people marvelled and paid their pence
for this minutely written, thirty-two page letter
addressed to every person in the land.
Page(s) 38
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