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I love writing about pencils no one has written about before – not "undiscovered," obviously, but definitely the unusual the unsung, and the . . . the "un-thought about." I generally don’t like writing about things I’m "supposed" to like.
As for this W.S. Hicks, I know I’m supposed to like it the same way I’m supposed to like the girl in a Playboy Centerfold -- and dammit, I do like it. It’s just too gorgeous not to like it, even though I also agree with one of my pencil buddies who called it "gaudy":
But the thing I don’t like it, and the part that I never will like, is what it’s made of:
This thing was so important when it was made that it was even given a manufacturer-scratched serial number.
I don’t like this kind of pressure. It’s hard to enjoy a pencil that’s in my safe deposit box. I don’t like the pressure of knowing, if gold prices skyrocket even further in the midst of a financial meltdown, that this may someday be destroyed for the intrinsic value of the metal it contains.
None of that stopped me from paying a small fortune (by my standards) for it. And I do like knowing that at least during my lifetime, it’s safe.
I wouldn't call that a manufacturer's serial number. That sort of scratched-in code is and was standard practice for jewelers, watch repairers, silversmiths, etc to identify stuff going through their hands, whether inventory or repair work.
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