For three years it performed its official duties during the day, but at night – and almost exclusively for the next seven years – it became a weaver of dreams. It was the machine on which I wrote all forty three short stories, the novella, and finally the novel. I came to regard it as my closest companion in the matter of getting by in life.
But I’m having a clearout at the moment, and I decided that the three redundant computers had to go. I took two of them to the tip today, including my prized cream coloured model.
Driving away was awful. I felt like I was abandoning an old friend to an ignominious fate. I can be remarkably sentimental sometimes, and I find it quite difficult to understand people who aren’t.