I’VE just seen a photograph of a complete stranger’s new tattoo on LinkedIn. They had it inked after passing their 100 words-per-minute shorthand exam, and it says “You can do whatever you put your mind to” in Teeline.

I’ll grant you, it’s not exactly a rose, or your first-born’s name, or “Mum”; but I’m telling you, I have tattoo envy for the first time in my life.

Barely a day goes by that I don’t get stopped mid-interview by someone eyeing up my reporter’s notebook. There’s a lull in the conversation, or perhaps a gasp of wonderment, and I know the question is coming: “Is that shorthand?” followed by: “What does that say?”

I then proceed to rattle off the last couple of sentences that came out of their mouth, which by now is hanging open in slack-jawed amazement.

It’s the one thing I have in my arsenal that impresses people – a superpower, if you will. When I visited my daughter’s Brownie pack to talk about my job, I had a queue of girls waiting to be taught to write their names in hieroglyphics.

“How do you do that?” Well, I had to learn it back in 1853 – sorry, 1997 – when I was training to pass the exams that would enable me to get a job as a newspaper journalist. Classes were at 9am daily, and as I wasn’t a morning person, these were the bane of my life.

It’s like learning speak a foreign language, which was always my strength at school – or learning to drive, which wasn’t. You have to switch off the part of your brain that translates, or tells you: “This is bloody weird,” and just lean into it, let it take over and do its thing.

I’ll admit my shorthand these days is a bit like your GP’s handwriting– legible only to me, and even then only if read a short time after the event. Leave it three weeks, and it’s stone cold and barely decipherable.

Pitman is the method most widely recognised, the one your mum learned as a secretary. It was developed by Sir Isaac Pitman in 1837 to transcribe words based on sounds rather than spelling, and uses a series of strokes and dots to enable speedwriting. Among the texts used to promote it were The Lord’s Prayer. Pitman soared in popularity thanks to correspondence courses, and his book The Phonographic Teacher sold a million copies.

The standard method learned by all UK journalists today, Teeline was created in 1968 by Pitman teacher James Hill as a simplified method that would be less precise but quicker and easier to learn. It took things a step forward from Pitman by basing its outlines on the shapes of the letters, with the aim of taking your pen off the page as little as possible.

Vowels are dropped unless they are at the end of a word, or crucial to avoid misinterpretation (say, the difference between Tom and Tim). A dash on a line is a ‘d’, a dash between lines is a ‘t’. A ‘k’ is written like a ‘c’ for speed, so my name would be spelt “crsti”.

“Can’t you just record things?” Shorthand seems very analogue in the 21st century. Smartphones and AI transcription software are certainly enticing – they would save the hassle of rereading my interview, which would be ready to edit at the push of a button.

But I’m hooked on the physicality of my notebook. I live and die by my notes. I bought a Dictaphone when those were a thing, but the sound levels were dreadful for the only interview I ever did with it, and who wants to listen to the whole thing again when you can just flick through a few pages? I lost my recording device within a couple of months and never looked back. It will probably turn up in my teenage bedroom, fossilised beyond recognition, a relic of a bygone era suitable only for a museum.

There are still places where you can’t record – for example, it’s a serious offence (contempt of court) to make audio recordings, take photos or film anywhere inside a court building – shorthand is essential, and it had better be good.

Google AI describes shorthand as “a niche skill”; whatever. I’m in good company: Charles Dickens used shorthand throughout his life, a system called Brachygraphy which he referred to in David Copperfield as “a savage stenographic mystery”. Dickens adapted the system and invented new symbols of his own, to the point that there are letters and stories written in shorthand, still waiting for someone to decode them.

If I do go under the needle, what to say? I’m thinking on that, but in the meantime, my message to you reads as follows: “I hope someone is reading this column and that you enjoy it. Have a great day. Kirstie Newton.”