| Kay’s Typewriter Miss New Zealand no longer needs a typewriter. Her father brought it round when he came for Sunday tea. Kay’s a showgirl, not a typiste. Her photo’s in 'The Australasian Post'. That’s Kay? Her mascara. Her sequinned shoes. Her skimpy outfit of pink feathers that so shocks my mother, makes me shiver. She’s seventeen at last and leaving town, highkicking in fishnet stockings across the Tasman with George Robbie’s troupe. We neither saw nor heard of Kay again. No one ever asked. Meanwhile, I dismembered her typewriter on the kitchen table, struggled to find a place for those parts that I was left with, learned to type by touch. Diana Brodie |
