A screech from my 1950s telephone rouses me from deep concentration. Today is a day of beginnings.
I take a cardboard box from the shelf behind my desk and flip off the lid. Inside is a plethora of antique pens and replicas of instruments used by writers of yesterday - I hesitate. There was a time when I would have wielded one of these, or just opted for a freshly sharpened No 2 pencil to shape my reverie - but today is different. And while my Parker comforts the would-be writer in me, it's this tragic Logitech that will ultimately type out my words. I've had to face it, plastic's just plain faster, not to mention virtually-effective.
I stare out the window as a friend chats with me across the line, picking at the old sticker on my phone:
POLIZEI - FEUERWEHR - SANITAET
The number used to be a six digit one with no prefix, and like my antique friends I must leave it behind for now. I hang up and return to the screen; this is the moment I've waited for. How many articles have I written in my lifetime and saved in some random folder on my computer? A bazillion? But now, when someone is actually waiting for one...
There is no romance in the presence; there is nothing glorious. That comes once the work is done. So I struggle to shed the cloak of reverie from my mind and clear it out like so many busy housekeepers.
This is the moment of truth. And so I begin.