Writer Margaret and Roy are my type of people

SOMEWHERE in my loft is an old-fashioned typewriter, a relic of my days as a foreign correspondent.

I carried it all round south-east Asia, bashing out copy to file through the nearest Reuters agency.

Nobody uses these machines today. They’ve been superseded by computers, and I bet you can’t buy ribbons any more.

Well, they’re not completely obsolescent. Not in Mrs Margaret Cave’s house in Langley, Berks, anyway. She sends me the first typewritten letter I’ve had in years, thanking me for my articles.

“So many things you write about are similar to our lives and memories,” she writes. “You sound like my husband in many ways – he wears a flat cap – he’s had it about 20 years. He doesn’t like change, and hates new technology. He will try and repair anything, looking for old pieces of wood he can use.

“He was a young boy during the Second World War and has many memories. He loves watching old films of that era, especially on Talking Pictures.

“I was born during the Norwich Blitz, and my father was sent to Burma.

“I was five when he returned. I met Roy while he was doing National Service in Norfolk and we later married. We love hearing about your allotment, and where you live, and your articles about marmalade and rhubarb. Your visit to the dentist we found hilarious.”

Margaret, 79, and Roy, 84, say: “You’ve kept us and many others amused with your wit and stories through these difficult times. Carry on the good work.”

I will, I will. That’s what it’s all about. Thank you both – and congratulations on immaculate typing, Mrs Cave.