Groma Kolibri. Man, it's a slim typewriter!

The Groma Kolibri certainly has a low profile. Looks like a normal '50s era typewriter that somebody's let the air out of.

Now, I recall seeing a picture of a Hermes Featherweight in Robert Messenger's book "The Magnificent 5" which shows the typewriter next to a box of matches and it gave me an idea.
So I took a quick snap of the Groma with my iPod Touch.

Yeah, that's pretty slim.

Birth of a Typewriter Nerd...I blame Olympia.

While using the Olympia, I was reminded of how deliberate the act of writing on a typewriter is compared to a computer. This is something that has been oft-quoted by some writers who still prefer a typewriter over a word processor. On a typewriter, you get one chance to get it right, just like film photography.
And then there's the sound of the typewriter itself.

Which I guess is why I also like mechanical wristwatches too. It's all springs and cogs and wheels all compressed into less than a 40mm diameter.
Modern technology is great. It's all practical and time-saving.
But it's also a little bit cold.
Just my take.

Der TypenKasten*

My wife borrowed a copy of "The Lives of Others" (Dir: Florian Henckel Von Donnersmark, 2006) one night, but I wasn't really in the mood to watch it. Fast forward a few months later after I'd been bitten by the typewriter bug and there I was with a sudden urge to see this film. So we got it again. And it was a brilliant film. The story unfolds at a great and gentle pace, Ulrich Muhe's portrayal of the tortured, but loyal Stasi agent Weisler is filled with both depth and restraint and there are moments of true tension and humanity throughout. 

In the film, there's a brief scene where a Stasi technician pinpoints the make and model of typewriter which is used to write an incriminating newspaper article about the oppression suffered by writers in East Germany during the last years of The Cold War. 

The typewriter in question is a Groma Kolibri. 

 

I was thinking of adding an Hermes Baby Rocket to my collection, but after seeing this film, my interest shifted slightly to a Groma, even though I figured the chances of finding one, on eBay or anywhere else, would be slim. Also, I assumed that these were only made with German keyboards, where the QWERTY arrangement of keys would be rearranged as QWERTZ instead. That would have done my head in. I knew I'd be writing things like; "Hello, pleased to meet zou." and "Well, what's zour answer, zes or no?"

And then, one did indeed turn up on the 'bay, and I just had to have it.

When I lifted the lid of the case, the machine looked absolutely stunning. Classic German mid-Century design elements oozed from every curve of the Kolibri. And talk about a low profile! I tested it and it seemed okay. There was some paint missing from the space bar and the upper-case letters would need to be looked at, since they weren't hitting the page entirely. No big deal. I paid for it and high-tailed it outta there. Seller was very pleasant to deal with actually.

No decent photos of it yet. Lighting wasn't letting me get away with good pics. Case has the slightly metallic green paint job.

Love the Kolibri logo font. Wondering if I can remove it, paint it gold, and then fasten it back on.

And hopefully, this should be the last typewriter I buy. I have a somewhat varied collection and I'll get around to putting up words and pictures about them all in the next few weeks.

I should especially thank(or blame)Robert Messenger for mentioning the Groma Kolibri in his excellent little book, "The Magnificent 5-And 250 Other Great Things About Portable Typewriters". Check out his blog, http://oztypewriter.blogspot.com/. He just might still have some copies left.


*No, I don't speak, read or write German. Can you tell?

Spools rush in...

Both of these spools have "TOP RIGHT" embossed on them. My repair guy says that one of them should be "TOP LEFT", otherwise, the spool will advance in one direction only. However, I've yet to see two different spools on all the machines I've seen for sale on eBay. Not that eBay is the barometer for what's available out there, but it's a good indicator, I suppose.
Still, if I need to advance the ribbon manually back to one side whenever it reaches the end, I figure it's a small price to pay.

Bond Fan Fiction No.2

When it came time for the next installment, I found it easier to set it in the present day. So I transported Bond's nemesis, Irina Markov into the 21st Century. Once again, I based it on one of M4tt's photographs.


(2)   "Between a Rock and a Hard Place"

Photo by M4tt



       Bond raised his arm and glanced at his Omega Seamaster Professional. The dial showed 12:44.  Damn Q Branch for supplying him with a quartz-operated watch!, he thought to himself. Bond despised the lack of craftsmanship that went into the manufacture of a battery-operated movement. The monotonous ticking of the watch merely reinforced his opinion that this type of timepiece possessed no soul. Some of the staff in Q Branch thought him a Luddite at times because of his attitude towards modern electronics. And though these products of the digital age had often saved Bond’s life, he felt they had no place in an otherwise finely crafted wristwatch. He would have a quiet word with M when he got back to London. Still, he knew why he’d been supplied with this particular wristwatch for this mission. And now, circumstances had forced him to rely on Q Branch’s modern electronics once again.

       He pulled out the helium-release crown located near the ten o’clock edge of the watch to activate the distress beacon. By his estimation, the Jet Ranger would be there within ten or twelve minutes. Safely nestled behind the rocky outcrop, he looked down at his leg. The bullet had nicked his left thigh and the wound was bleeding steadily. And Irina Markov was still perched on the uppermost section of the tombs.

       But that had been her last round. Bond had counted out her shots. Her SVD Dragunov rifle was fitted with a ten-cartridge box magazine crammed with steel-jacketed 7NI rounds which were designed solely for the art of sniping. It was Bond's favorite long-range sniper rifle. Some had called this gun heavy, but Bond preferred the reassuring weight of it. Markov had chosen well. And despite her repeated and ingenious attempts to kill him over the years, Bond had developed a certain level of admiration and indeed desire for her, the former Soviet Union's star assassin.

       He had often thought about what she would be like in bed. He had surmised that, much like himself, she would be a ruthless lover. But he also knew that to put the two of them in the same room would be equivalent to pouring two Siamese Fighting fish into the same tank of water. They would slaughter each other beautifully.

       Her first nine shots had been wasted, but the tenth bullet had literally cut his leg from under him. The force with which he had hit the ground had knocked the wind out of him, leaving him just enough strength to crawl to the small rock formation for cover. She was out of ammunition and would have to get closer to Bond in order to kill him.  He guessed it would take her ten minutes to get down to him from the tomb. Five if she didn't care about announcing to him which direction she was coming from. Bond hoped that the descent would drain some of her energy, making her a more predictable opponent. 

Either way, he had to work quickly.

       He reached down to his other leg and took the Gerber Applegate-Fairbairn Tactical Knife from the nylon sheath strapped to his right calf. Not his usual choice of steel, but he was grateful now that Fatima from Station T in Ankara had insisted on him taking it. He would have preferred a blade longer than the four-and-a-half inches he now held, but it would have to do.  He cursed himself for leaving the PPK in the gun safe at Station T, but then he wasn't expecting a gunfight that afternoon.

       His thumb met the tiny metal stud on the bottom edge of the blade and flicked outwards. The afternoon sun traced a short arc of silver as the blade snapped into place. Bond quickly cut away the left sleeve of his butter-yellow Sea Island cotton shirt. He placed the handle of the knife between his teeth as sweat began to form on his upper lip. From the pocket of his dark blue Kilgour trousers, he removed a three-ply cotton handkerchief and folded it into a neat square pad. This he pressed against the wound in his leg, biting down on the knife handle to fight the pain which came in relentless waves. He had been in worse states than this before, but had decided that, today, he was not in the mood to be shot at. Bond quickly tied the shirt-sleeve around the padded handkerchief into a tight knot.

       Satisfied, he spat the knife into his right hand. His fingers curled around the moistened handle as he stared at the steel blade and thought of all the lives he had ended with a weapon such as this. It was the most personal method of killing. Up close, not from a cowardly (Bond felt) and detached distance. Using a knife was the fastest way to determine who was willing to do what was necessary to get the job done. And who was not. The bodies of those who were not littered the back-streets of Hell.

       Bond thought he could hear the faint ‘tukku-tukku’ staccato beat of the helicopter's rotors growing slowly louder. Would it get to him before Markov?, he wondered.

It didn't matter.

Whatever happened next, she would pay for this, he thought...

****************************************************
Based on characters created by Ian Fleming.

EDIT- 2/6/11;  I changed the bullet wound slightly to make it less severe.

Wyler Incaflex Hand-Wound, circa 1968(?)

I've been collecting watches for some time now and have accumulated a decent collection of varied brands and designs. However, the watch that means the most to me is this one.

My Dad’s watch, pictured here with his glasses and Gillette Safety razor from 1961. I use the razor, but the glasses...well, they belong to another time. They’d look great on me if I were Peter Sellers or Michael Caine circa 1965.

Dad had this watch on a Spiedel-style expanding bracelet, which I loved because it represented what I thought a grown-up’s watch should look like. I used to see a lot of watches on men’s wrists attached to these expanding straps. Not that I really tended to notice these things when I was a kid. However, as I got older and various uncles and family friends came round on Sunday afternoons and the surface of the laminex-topped dining table became populated with long glasses of Abbott’s Lager or Victoria Bitter and the ashtray filled up with the butts of Viscount and Senior Service cigarettes, I subconsciously noticed the type of wristwatches that these men wore. They were either on leather straps or expanding bracelets.
One thing about these bracelets, though- they can tend to wear away the ends of the lugs just from constant rubbing against them. That’s one thing I’ve noticed on some customer’s watches since I started in this industry.
 
But about the Wyler, I don’t wear it often because it’s 32mm and even on my 6.5 inch wrist, that’s a tad small. Still, it goes without saying that it’s a keeper. I removed the expanding bracelet in order to preserve the lugs.

Bond Fan Fiction No.1

As a life-long Bond fan, I had finally gotten around to starting a Bond film script quite some time ago, but finding the time to write just seems to be an impossiblilty sometimes. Since I also hang out on an Omega wristwatch forum, there are countless photos of watches that get posted up all the time. One of the forum members, M4tt, put up a picture last year and he entitled the thread; "Bond-like watch in a Bond-like Location".

For those of you who are unaware, Ian Fleming equipped the literary 007 with a Rolex Oyster Perpetual wristwatch back in the 1950s and, because we watch collectors are a pack of nuts, there has been much discussion over the years as to exactly which type of Rolex watch Bond actually wore in the books. Fleming's description didn't go much beyond "a watch with a dark face with large phosphorous numerals", many have argued that he wore a Rolex Explorer, which was the only model in the Rolex line-up that had a black dial with four numerals at the cardinal points on the dial.

M4tt doesn't own a Rolex Explorer, but he does own a watch with a similar look, which is made by a company called MKII.

Anyway, I felt a sudden flash of inspiration when I saw the picture and below is the result. It's a little simple, but I didn't want to edit it too much.

(1)    "THREE SHEETS TO THE WIND"

Picture by M4tt

       Bond glanced out at the three sails moving at a bovine pace on the water before lifting his arm to look at his Rolex Oyster Perpetual. Its dial showed 12:12pm. Fouad was late, dammit!

Oh well, he thought, to hell with him! It wasn't Bond's job to baby-sit this Diplomat through this revolt. If Egypt wanted Britain out, it was fine by him. Bond would be glad to be back in his flat off King's Road in Chelsea. He was beginning to tire of these textbook missions M had gotten him onto lately. And was getting hungry, anyway.

       His gaze returned to the three boats as a familiar shape caught his eye from the vessel on the right. Even from this distance, he recognised her. He lifted the World War II-surplus Sard & Spencer binoculars up to his eyes and peered through the lenses. Yes, she looked exactly the same as she did in the photos he had seen in M's office. The ones taken seven years earlier. Time had barely tainted her. The long legs looked muscular as she nimbly tip-toed over to the beach towel that was sprawled on the deck before draping her lithe figure onto it. The light breeze tickled at her long dark hair, giving the impression of a flame made of night and though the sky was slightly overcast, her tanned body shone like a beacon. Bond's cruel mouth tilted upwards at the corners into a thin smile.
       It was her alright.

       As he lowered the binoculars, he caught a glint from the deck of the boat to the far left. He quickly raised the lenses up again, aimed them at the boat and, in a split-second, made out the shape of a figure lying down holding a long dark tube pointed directly at him. 

       The end of the tube emitted a brief orange flash. Bond was already diving to his left as he heard the delayed crack of the rifle shot pierce the air. Years of training and working in the field had honed his reflexes to a cat-like state. The bullet clipped the frame of an empty beach chair as Bond's forearms collided softly with the sand. He heard the barking voice of Simmons, the Service's Jiu-Jitsu instructor, echo from his memory; "Don't go rigid, Bond, roll with it, man!" 

       The momentum of his leap further propelled him forward in a fluid roll and he landed behind the relative safety of the cobble-stoned drinking fountain.
       Bond reached for his Walther PPK, nestled in the Berns-Martin holster on his left hip, hidden by his pale blue Sea Island cotton shirt.
       Yes, it was her alright, he thought...

  

       And he recognised her tactics. She hadn't changed one bit. Not in looks, not  in methodology. It was a classic Irina Markov strategy. She had often used her looks as a distraction and then next thing the target knew, a bullet or blade would tear their flesh from nowhere. Death would descend like a cold, dark veil. Bond knew that his pistol was useless against the sniper. The eight 7.65mm rounds in his Walther were deadly at close range, but at this distance, totally useless. But then, Bond knew that the sniper's job was not to kill him, but merely to keep him pinned down in one spot. Markov had other plans for James Bond of the British Secret Service. No anonymous sniper's bullet from a converted Soviet Mosin-Nagant bolt action rifle for him. Markov had a grander death planned for 007.

       A slightly battered burgundy Citroen Traction Avant 15 slithered to a halt at the kerb thirty yards away from Bond. Four men in grey suits got out of the car. One man, the driver, raised a walkie-talkie to his ear and listened briefly. Then he turned to look in the direction of the drinking fountain where Bond crouched. 

       He quickly scanned the surrounding area of the beach. It was a secluded stretch of sand and, as such, no other souls were around when the shot was fired. She had planned it very well. It was rumored in intelligence circles both East and West that Markov was the Soviet's greatest assassin. And now she had come for him. Bond felt flattered to a certain extent.
 
       He turned to look up and down both sides of the street where the concrete footpath met the sand. Deserted. It was midday, after all, and most people were having lunch before partaking of an afternoon siesta. It would be hours before anyone else appeared on this beach again.      

       This was it. A situation he had faced numerous times in the past. And, to James Bond, it always felt like the first time. He felt the muscles in his solar plexus tighten into coiled tungsten as he pulled back the slide of the Walther, feeling the reassuring, solid click of a round sliding up into the chamber.
       The four men reached into their jackets and withdrew pistols. They fanned out slightly in an amateurish attempt to outflank Bond.
       Hired help, he thought to himself. This was going to be easy...

*******************************************************
Based on characters created by Ian Fleming.

This snippet is set in the early 1950s.

EDIT: I felt this needed an introduction.