Perhaps I’d post more frequently if I didn’t enjoy writing with a fountain pen so much more than typing on a computer keyboard.

I recently bought a Sigma Style fountain pen, designed by a guy called Howard Kettle up in Cheshire. He buys the mechanism from Schmidt in Germany, designs the pens, chooses the materials, and has the components machined by engineers in the South West.

And it’s gorgeous. I don’t know where it sits in the hierarchic pantheon of writing implements but it has a lovely, laid-back weight and traces a deliciously smooth line on the page. The fresh ink sits proud of the paper, like black dew; then seeps into the fibres, and I imagine I can hear little rippling, kissing sounds as it sinks.

My girlfriend has a fountain pen too, and she took it to work (she’s part of the management team at a local primary school) . A colleague borrowed it and applied the nib upside-down to the paper. The kids couldn’t believe that the ink was a different colour to the barrel. I bought my mum a Sigma for her birthday. She’s felt that perhaps she should put it in a display case rather than use it: she’s not the world’s most intense egotist.

I love looking directly at where my hand’s working. I love pausing to twiddle the ink plunger when the reservoir runs half-way dry. I love pausing to refill it when the reservoir empties. Little pauses for thought. I love how it asks me to write in bright, natural light rather than in low-reflection gloom.

It seems to encourage thoughtfulness and ritual, while the computer promotes distraction and bad habit. And I’m off to have a go now, because I’ve been on the PC all day and my eyeballs ache.

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