For Moral Absolutists Only? Maybe

I omitted the most important event of my 1968 from the previous post because I'm not a computer. That Christmas I received a Petite typewriter as my present. For about three-and-a-half years I loved that machine and its pale blue typing ribbons and used both almost constantly. By the time I'd learned enough about the world to consider writing stories of my own, a new, upgraded typewriter was on its way but that story's for 1972. The principal event of importance in my 1969 was my first holiday to France and Italy - it lasted a month, most of July in fact. Train from Glasgow Central to Euston, then a cab across town to Victoria; the experience was necessarily rather hallucinatory but I do recall the taxi moving down the Mall and swerving in front of Buckingham Palace. It didn't feel real; it felt as though I were dreaming it. There was a hideous full English breakfast at some scratch café across the street from Victoria Station which nearly made me sick. Then we boarded ...