The thing about having a pen in your hand is this: it is delicious. Ball-point pens feel glorious, even the crappy cheap ones you buy that stick and have to be shaken upsidedown and held in your hands and warmed. It feels as natural to hold a pen as it does to sleep or walk. It’s not about writing always either. Sometimes it’s just nice to draw or to let the ball of the pen roll aimlessly across the flat horizon of the page, drawing hills, filling them with elephants. Sometimes it’s nice to look at your most careless, sloppy writing and recognise that it looks like your dad’s, that even the way you move is incoded in your genetics, and here it is, coming out in ink. And there’s this: ink smells wonderful. Hold the notepad to your face and you remember why you tried to drink ink that one time when you were little. It’s a wonderful, dark, heady flavour. I’m surprised it’s not used more often in cooking. Now that would be a marriage of one slow, careful artform to another. Wouldn’t that be marvellous, to have inky fingers and an inky mouth, so everyone would know you were a glutton.