Wendyl Nissen: Final tap of the key

Typewriters, once an unwitting instrument of workplace discord, are no longer being produced. Photo / Supplied

News that the last typewriter factory in the world has closed sent me into a fit of despondency this week as I mourned the one tool of my trade I was required to have when I started out as a journalist in the early 80s.

It's not that I miss tapping out every letter with force, whiting out my mistakes and making three carbon copies every time I write a paragraph. But the typewriter taught me a valuable lesson about workers' rights.

In the late 80s I worked in the New Zealand Herald newsroom and a few of us younger workers couldn't help but notice the advent of the word processor.

They hadn't made it into the newsroom, but word on the street was that other newsrooms across the world were getting them. I checked out my typewriter, which looked like it had probably typed out the news of the Crimean War, the Boer War and the death of Queen Victoria.

The letters B, E and I had long since ceased to work - meaning whenever I handed in my copy I had to go through each line and insert the letters B, E and I by hand.

My colleagues had similar problems involving the lack of a space bar, or a return handle which no longer worked. We were tapping out the nation's fast-breaking news on equipment which should have been consigned to the dump.

So I went to the union meeting that week and suggested we stage a typewriter strike.

"I put forward the idea that on Wednesday next week we all turn up for work, take our typewriters, put them in the centre of the newsroom and refuse to type one word until they provide us with new ones," I demanded.

"Preferably electric!" I added for good measure.

Everyone enthusiastically agreed, before we decamped to the pub to enthusiastically agree some more.

The following Tuesday night I left discreet messages on everyone's typewriter with the code name "typewriter", reminding them of our action to be taken the next day.

I could barely sleep that night, so excited was I at the prospect of grinding New Zealand's largest daily newspaper to a halt.

Wednesday morning came and I was called out on a story as soon as I got into the office, so I had no time to notice that the familiar clatter had not been silenced, nor was there a gathering of old typewriters in the centre of the newsroom.

It wasn't until I got into the office later in the morning that I saw every one of my colleagues tapping out their stories for the day on their time-worn typewriters.

"What happened?" I asked.

"You weren't here. We just decided to keep going."

I stared at my old piece of metal and played with its ribbon for awhile before someone yelled "Copy!" and reminded me I had a story to write for the first deadline in 10 minutes. This time I neglected to write in the Bs, the Es and the Is.

As I handed it in, I couldn't help but notice a smirk from the chief sub and a snort from the chief reporter.

"Guess you better rethink your career as a union organiser," wisecracked someone on the subs' bench.

"Guess you better get used to inking in missing letters on my copy, because I refuse to," I responded, before stropping off for a well-needed cigarette which I smoked at my desk, as you did in those days.

"Could I see you for a moment?" said a man in a suit peering through the smoke. "In my office."

I stubbed out the cigarette and followed, wondering if you could get the strap when you were 25 years old.

It turned out that new equipment was on its way.

"Why didn't someone in management tell us?" I whined.

"You never asked," he said, before lighting my cigarette and offering to buy me a drink later.