A letter with consequences

An original literary non-fiction-style account of trying to write a short letter on an old manual typewriter.

The typewriter occupied the table with the solid confidence of a machine which had never been asked to fit in a bag. My cousin placed a sheet behind the roller and turned a knob. The paper rose obediently. I put my fingers on the keys, expecting the lightness of a keyboard, and produced nothing at all.

I pressed harder. A metal arm leapt up, struck and withdrew. One black letter sat on the page. It was not a very interesting letter, but it had arrived with such determination that I felt obliged to continue it. By the end of the first line, my harmless enquiry about lunch sounded like an official demand.

Then I made a mistake. My little finger moved towards the place where a familiar erasing key ought to have been. It found empty air. The error remained, unusually public. My cousin suggested crossing it out and carrying on. I looked at the letter again, hoping that another inspection might improve its spelling. The machine declined to participate in this hope.

For the next sentence, I composed every word before letting my hands near the keys. This produced a stately beginning and a completely unnecessary reference to the weather. My cousin read over my shoulder and asked whether I was inviting her to lunch or opening a shipping company.

I started another sheet. The first line said, 'Are you free on Saturday?' The keys made the same emphatic noise, but the sentence no longer tried to match their dignity. I left the small uneven spaces where they were.

How does the writer use language to create humour about writing on the typewriter?