The Writers New Pen.

How many writers use a pen these days?
Mine doesn't.
But he calls his new laptop his New Pen..
'Are you going to give it a name?' I ask.
'Not sure, Sprouty.'
If he does, he won't tell me. It will be something fitting like Delilah or Cerys.
I can't remember the last time i saw him so excited about something-he hasn't brought it to bed with him yet, but i feel it's only a matter of time.
In fact, i'm sure the only reason he didn't bring The Dinosaur to bed was because he would have had to ask me to balance the monitor on my knees while he balanced the keyboard on his.
And i'm not entirely sure where he thought the tower would sit.
The Dinosaur- as he fondly started calling the old computer after he'd had it for about six months-is in it's death throes. I'm planning a funeral, but it's going to be a few days away yet, as there is still so much information on there for Sy to swap across to his new laptop, but i'm making all the neccessary arrangements.
The Humanist is on standby, and been given a potted history of the The Dinosaur, ready to read out at the funeral.
I've booked a plot- Stratford on Avon recycling centre has a lovely little place earmarked for it.
I've been trying to get Sy to put a few words together to give it a good send-off. After all, this this was his best friend for a good few years.
I'm not sure how he's going to feel when he switches the old bugger off for the last time- when he sees that little light go out...
Probably a bit like John Connor in Terminater 2.
It's a little disturbing how Sy has so easily transferred his affections to this newer, younger, sleeker model, particularly while The Dinosaur is still sat in it's corner, winking periodically at him.
I've watched him and shuddered. How easily men are swayed.
I'm trying to sway this change of writing arrangements to my advantage though.
'With the monitor gone, you'll have that space to put all the books you're working with.'
'Well, Sprouty, that might be a good idea...'
''Cos at the moment, i haven't got anywhere to sit.'
'like i say, that might be a good idea.'
'And i've got an idea about what to put in the space where the tower lives.'
Big sigh.
'Go on.'
'Well, you know all those books you put inside the pouff...'
'They're alright in there!'
'Well actually, they're not. I can't move it to hoover under it. And every time i try, i give myself a hernia.'
'It's a thought...'

And that's as far as i've got. I'm working on it, but these things take time.
On top of Shakespeare and Arthur, Sy has found somebody else to write about.
Some woman from the Victorian era, i think.
I haven't asked to much about it, because my head will go bang.
With her in his head and the possibility of the laptop in the bed, there's not much room for me anywhere at the moment.
Goes with the territory.

Till next time,
Shakespeare's Housekeeper xx