When word-like computer programs first came out, it prompted me to start writing. I wrote about anything and everything; letters diaries etc. One time, I started a letter to a friend in America and over several days wrote endless pages and pages and pages. I think in the end there was over 50 pages, all in one continuous stream (as it was printed on that old style continuous computer paper). Before I sent it, I carried around in an old canvass shoulder bag; perhaps I was deliberating whether to release it, since it was a very honest account of a recent escapade where I had behaved incredibly badly and incredibly foolishly. Whilst it was still with me in the bag (pictured), I attended a party in Croydon, South London. Somehow, I got to talking about the letter and someone asked to see it. This picture has the viewing and I am the person towards the back evidently demonstrating that typing is done with the fingers. By the way, I eventually did send it and even quite recently the recipient confirmed that the letter, having been duly read now resided in his loft space in up State New York waiting to see if I ever became a politician and thus an obvious object of a lucrative blackmail scam. That clearly never transpired; back then, I was a chicken-s*** no-body and that is a status I have heroically maintained ever since.