Could it be, one ink drop at a time, that the tide has turned against László Bíró’s utilitarian little invention? Mary Erskine and Stewart Melville’s junior school in Edinburgh has banned its pupils from using ballpoint pens. Instead, they will have to master the art of writing with fountain pens. The school’s headmaster believes that a return to old ways will vastly improve the handwriting of his charges.

But there are so many more benefits to using a fountain pen than a well- executed curlicule. As any Beano or Just William reader knows, they are an all-singing, all-squirting classroom anti-boredom device. What’s more, with the right sort of nib they are a throwing weapon that a Ninja would be proud of. (Though, let’s be fair to László, the Biro doubled-up as an excellent pea-shooter.)

They also teach the diligent child that no ones likes a swot. What better service can a fellow pupil give to the over-enthusiastic student than an “accidental” knocking of an inkpot over some perfectly presented work?

They also remind us that life has a tricky habit of throwing up little unhappinesses. Remember that moment when the lines of your essay script are marching elegantly and uniformly to a brilliant conclusion, when — SPLODGE!

And they are romantic, too. Though Tim’s love for Mary never lasted the week, the words “Tim loves Mary”, studiously tattooed on to a desk, last forever, inspiring new generations of spotty lovers. It is for these reasons that the fountain pen can never give way to the ballpoint. It is as indelible in our memories as a spreading stain of Parker’s Quink ink on a pristine shirt.