Back in the early fifties and specially for the School Cert exams my mother bought me a beautiful, Waterman fountain pen. It was grey with gold knib and fittings. It wrote just as I like a pen to behave, lovely and smooth I recall with a comparatively thin line. The last day of school before break up for the summer hols, I was leaning over the river bridge in our town and my pen supposedly clipped securely in my blazer top pocket fell out and plunged straight into the deep waters of the river. Thousands of years hence, some future archeologist sifting through the muddy silt may find my pen and wonder who owned this primitive writing instrument?