The Kalahari Typing School for Men by Alexander McCall Smith

Author:Alexander McCall Smith [Smith, Alexander McCall]
Language: eng
Format: epub, pdf
Tags: Suspense, cookie429, Kat, Extratorrents
ISBN: 9781400031801
Publisher: Anchor
Published: 2002-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

“There will be many sinners wishing to learn to type,” he said.

“They will see the pamphlets and some of them will realise what sinners they are.”

Mma Makutsi had readily agreed and had taken the typewrit-

ers, most of which were now in basic working order even if not all the keys worked, over to the hall, where they were stored in two padlocked cupboards. There were already tables and chairs in the hall, and these could seat over thirty, although the number of pupils would be limited by the ten typewriters available.

Within a few days, everything was prepared. A small adver-

tisement had been inserted in the Botswana Daily News, worded in such a way as to appeal to exactly the audience which Mma Makutsi had in mind.

Men: do you know that it is very important these days to be able to type? If you cannot type, you will be overtaken. There is no room in the modern world for those who cannot type.

You can now learn, in confidential conditions, at the Kalahari Typing School for Men, under the supervision of Mma Grace Makutsi, Dip. Sec. (magna cum laude) (Bw. Sec. Coll.).

Prospective students were then referred to the telephone number of the No. 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency and instructed to ask for the Typing School Department.

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A l e x a n d e r M c C a l l S m i t h

On the day of publication, Mma Makutsi was at work earlier

than usual. She had obtained an early copy of the paper from the printers and had read and reread the text of the advertisement. It gave her considerable pleasure to see her name in print. It was the first time that she had ever seen this, and she sat and stared at it for some time, thinking, That’s me, that’s my name, in print, in the newspaper, me.

The first call came half an hour later, and one followed another throughout the day. By four o’clock in the afternoon, there were twenty-two firm bookings for a place in the class; ten would start that week, a further ten would be admitted to the second course some two months later, and two were placed on a waiting list.

Mma Ramotswe shared Mma Makutsi’s pleasure.

“You were right,” she said. “There must be many men who are

desperate to learn how to type. It is very sad.”

“I told you it would work out,” said Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni. “I told you.”

THE FIRST class took place on a Wednesday evening. Mma

Ramotswe had given Mma Makutsi the afternoon off so that she could prepare for the occasion, and Mma Makutsi had spent

some time setting out sheets of paper at each desk and distribut-ing the exercise booklet which she had herself typed out and duplicated. On a makeshift blackboard at one end of the room she had drawn, in chalk, the layout of the keyboard, dissected with wavy lines for the domain of each finger and each thumb.

This was the basic knowledge of the typist, the

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