As if I needed more proof that I was my father's daughter...

Dad loves fixing things. Not just fixing things, but solving problems. It makes him happy, and he's very clever at it. He follows a very methodical process, and it's one I've certainly inherited through nurture, if not nature.

Step 1: you find what's not doing what it should be doing. Sounds simple, right? You'd be astounded.

I was just typing on my typewriter, my little Olivetti portable and all of a sudden there stopped being ink. I figured it was just the ribbon not switching, because one end of it has lost its little button that makes the mechanism trip, so I opened up the top, manually flicked the switch, made sure it was now turning the right way, and put it all back together.

Still no ink. It took me about five minutes to realise that the ribbon was actually not rising to meet the hammer to imprint the letter, and hence, no ink.

Step 2: you figure out exactly how it does what it should be doing.

In the past fifteen minutes I've learned all sorts of things about the mechanism of my little Olivetti. But I'm having problems. Because after a thoroughly intractible leverish bit, the mechanism disappears into the bowels of the machine, which are not designed to come apart for anything less than the apocalypse or, failing that, a screwdriver and a lot of willpower. Neither of which I have on hand.

But a torch might do.

Never fear, I shall soldier on. For I am, indeed, my father's daughter, and I will not let some mere simple machine with a problem defeat me.

Besides, I have to get up to

Step 3: Make it do what it should do.