{007} Cleaning my dad’s Parker 61.
I’m getting back into fountain pens. This is a wonderful and terrible thing.
Wonderful, because fountain pens are beautiful things. Even if your penmanship is appalling, fountain pens will at least make you feel good about writing.
Terrible, because you can get really OCD about them and it really brings out your inner magpie.
I’m presently flushing out four fountain pens. One is my Pilot which I’ve been using since uni and which was a completely unidentified Pilot until two days ago[1], and the other three I obtained today from family (the Parker 61, and two yet to be identified Sheaffer’s).
[1] Google Images wasn’t anywhere near this comprehensive when I first tried identifying this pen years ago.



