"tap, tap, tap .... ping!!"

We walk, braille-like, the length of the corridor, careful not to trip inadvertently into one of a series of mounted suits of armour that line the wall. We hear it again,

"Tap, tap, tap ... ping!", only this time, a little louder.

Approaching a half-opened door, we stand discretely to one side as our eyes become slowly accustomed to the gloom within. The room is illuminated by a solitary angle-poise, its beam directed upon a hunched figure seated at a desk. He's dressed in black, his eyes hidden from sight by a pair of Predator sun-glasses that cling insect-like to his face. A curious adornment, given the near darkness of the room in which he sits.

We notice his fingers dance balletically across the keyboard of a well-oiled Remington Noiseless 8. An instrument of some precision, it has been customised specifically for the task in hand. We follow the stranded electric cording attached to its rear. It leads in the first instance to a highly polished Victrola phonograph that bears a small brass plaque on the front. It's inscribed,

"Property of mrs electrofried - Loud, Proud and Home-Baked".

A virgin wax platter spins on the felted turntable of the Victrola, a cunningly improvised hard-disc drive for the Remington Noiseless. We trace the electric cording further across the desk and now it joins a silvered tray, above which hovers a quill pen.

"Tap, tap, tap ... ping ... whir ... scribble!"

The room becomes noisier by the second as the message is committed to paper. Its author leans back in the chair, a reflective smile playing across his otherwise passive face. At length, the whir and scribble comes to an end.

The man opens a drawer of his desk and pulls out a roll of sellotape. Tearing off a small strip, he gets to his feet and walks across to retrieve the freshly-inked page from the tray. We disappear backwards into the shadows as he marches to the open door. The message is duly posted to the open portal and reads,

"House of Electrofried .. now open for business".