Unfortunately, the 80s was also a time when parts and upgrading was expensive as Moore's Law hadn't yet had enough time to kick in with regards to home computing.
If you wanted to try something new or upgrade some bit of kit, you had to be inventive. It was a wild, exciting, anything-goes era where even the most unlikely components could find new life.
Such was the case when I embarked on the unlikely journey of fitting a 3 1/2-inch floppy drive from an Olivetti typewriter into an Amstrad 1512.
If you think this sounds like a project that only a mad scientist would attempt, well, you're not entirely wrong...
The Auction Adventure
The story began at a computer/tech auction, a popular haunt for nerds and tinkerers alike during the 80s.
Imagine a place filled with old monitors, obscure peripherals, and enough cables to wire a small country. It was there, amidst the clattering cacophony of bids, that the Olivetti electronic typewriter came up for auction.
Its gleaming shell whispered promises of innovation, but more importantly, it had something... something I had wanted... something I knew I needed... but something I hadn't noticed... but my friend did... a 3 1/2-inch floppy drive.
I had been wrestling with the limitations of my Amstrad 1512's single 5.25-inch floppy drive for a while.
As more software began appearing on the more compact 3 1/2-inch disks, I felt the pinch of technological obsolescence. It was my friend who first suggested this mad idea. “Bid for the typewriter,” he said with unwavering confidence. “It’ll be a piece of cake to swap out the drive.” Some cake, indeed!
After a successful cheap bid I was the proud owner of the Olivetti typewriter. I was brimming with excitement, ready to embark on this daring project with my friend's assurances echoing in my head.
The Plan (or Lack Thereof)
Armed with nothing more than a screwdriver, a basic understanding of electronics, and a healthy dose of optimism, I embarked on this DIY adventure.
The plan was simple enough: remove the floppy drive from the Olivetti typewriter and fit it into the Amstrad 1512. Of course, as with any great plan, the devil was in the details.
Finally, with my chum looking on in encouragement (or was it amusement?), I extracted the 3 1/2-inch drive from the typewriter's guts. It was a proud moment, akin to removing the golden idol in an adventure film... minus the booby traps, fortunately.
The Fitting
Next came the fitting. The Amstrad 1512, bless its heart, was not designed for such upgrades.
The 5.25-inch drive bays were cavernous compared to the compact 3 1/2-inch drive, and therein lay the challenge. It was at this point that my friend's "piece of cake" assurance felt more like the icing was missing.
This is where a little creativity, madness and a lot of improvisation came into play. My solution? Bits of wood. Yes, you read that correctly.
These bits of wood would act as makeshift brackets to hold the drive in place within the bay.
I carefully cut, sanded, and assembled my custom wooden scaffold with the precision of a carpenter building a tree house for squirrels... but with the result of something rather rickety. It wasn’t exactly state-of-the-art engineering, but it worked...mostly...
With the drive nestled snugly on its wooden throne, I faced the next challenge: wiring.
The connectors from the Olivetti drive didn’t quite match the Amstrad’s internals, but after some careful twisting, bending, and a bit of cursing, I managed to establish a connection that felt stable. I had created my very own Frankenstein's monster of a computer... a fusion of typewriter and PC, held together by wood and sheer determination.
The Moment of Truth
With the installation complete, it was time for the moment of truth. My chum and I gathered around the Amstrad, my heart racing and fingers crossed, and powered it on.
The familiar hum of the hard disk was joined by the whirring of the new drive, a noise as sweet as any symphony. Tentatively, I inserted a 3 1/2-inch floppy disk, half-expecting smoke to start billowing out of the machine.
To my utter delight... and some surprised, the screen flickered, the drive spun, and the disk's contents appeared before my eyes.
My wild experiment had actually worked. I felt like I had just climbed Everest or discovered a new continent. My friend gave me a hearty slap on the back and congratulated me on a job well done. The Amstrad, now equipped with a modern(ish) drive, was ready to take on the world... or at least a new wave of software.
Living with the Monster
Over the following weeks, the Amstrad 1512 proved itself a reliable workhorse with its new addition. The 3 1/2-inch drive opened up a whole new world of possibilities, allowing me to use a variety of new applications and games.
The setup was far from perfect... the drive had a tendency to misbehave if I nudged it too hard, and the wooden supports occasionally rattled in rhythm with the computer's cooling fan, and, though sturdy, added a certain rustic charm that would have made technicians everywhere cringe. But it was my creation, and I loved it.
Even as the years passed and technology advanced, I looked back on that project with fondness. It was a testament to the spirit of the 80s... a time when personal computing was a grand adventure, and a journey into the unknown where innovation was limited only by imagination (and sometimes sanity).
A Lesson in Creativity
Reflecting on the whole experience, I can't help but smile at the audacity of it all. It was a time when we didn’t just use our computers; we tinkered with them, personalised them, and made them truly our own. Every modification was a badge of honour, every upgrade a story waiting to be told.
So here’s to the 80s, to Lotus 1-2-3, to Amstrad and Olivetti, and to all the bits of wood that kept our dreams alive. We might not have had the sleek gadgets and instant connectivity of today, but we had something even more valuable... the thrill of discovery and the satisfaction of creating something unique with our own two hands.
In the end, perhaps my friend was right after all. Swapping out that drive was a piece of cake... just not the kind you'd expect at a Sunday afternoon tea party!