I wouldn’t consider myself an extremely object-oriented person. Rarely do I develop attachments to my possessions, and rarer still do I feel any real level of protection over them. I make an exception, of course, for a good pen.
I could write for hours on the sensation of a good pen. The way it glides over a page, the way it sits in your fingers, even the satisfying closing ‘click‘ of a well-made lid can inspire poetry in my darkest of times. My hunt for the perfect pen has been a long one. A couple of weeks ago I found my front runner for ‘ideal pen’. They came in a closed 5 pack, allowing for quick and easy replacement, also allowing me to have one waiting for me wherever I go, whether it be either of my desks or in the lab (although was yet to actually distribute them). They were of sleek design, fitting easily in to the hand whilst minimising cramp. Above all these beauties gave you that feeling of absolute power and class only obtainable from a good pen on crisp paper. Since purchase, the 5 of them stood alone in their pot upon my desk. Untouched, I thought, by anyone but me.
The First Encounter
The morning of my first encounter was a gorgeous autumnal day. Like every other I skipped gayly through the fallen array of crispy yellow, looked up at the warming oranges and reds, and breathed in the crisp blue air. Down I flew, past the dancing children, the singing cars, and the chirpy neighbours, not a care in the world. If only I had known the horror that was awaiting me at work.
Finally arriving, I frolicked up to the office, and innocently perched down at my desk. It was at that moment that the blood rushed from my head, and the lurching and twisting of my stomach had began. The oh so sweet scene outside the window had changed in an instant. The blue sky had been invaded by the cold dark grey of thunder, it’s lightening even failing to lighten its shadow. The singing and dancing had stopped, and in it’s place stood a cowering silence. Someone, no, some feral beast, had stolen one of my pens.
“Where is it” I cried, “Somebody please, where is it”. Blank faces met me. Runner over I grabbed L “where is it! What have you sick bastards done with it!”. “I… I … I dunno what you’re talking about”. In what felt like no time at all I had repeated this on every person in the office. Nothing. Scrambling back to my feet after the punch from the contracted plumber fixing our toilet, I fell right back to my knee’s, opened my arms to the sky, and screamed my vow of vengeance.
What you are currently reading is my formal declaration, Feral Pen Thief. I will find you, wherever you may be. Whoever you might be. This post marks the first of what I hope to be a very short series documenting my investigations into The Feral Pen Thief of Lockdown. History won’t remember you kindly my friend.