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Once upon a time, but in truth at the end of a recent day, in the softness and quiet of the dusk, an unexpected Ah rent the veil between some far dimension and this. And so it was that in an unguarded moment there slipped through a secret and tender Malty Pement. Hung suspended in the digital air it appeared before the eye of one to whom it was unknown; the eye of one entranced by a Being of such gentle mystery and delight, by its' beauty, grace and strangeness.
Now the eye of the Beholder was ruled by Curiosity and Mild Confusion and, as is the way with these things, for a while the Malty Pement was besieged by a desire for the key to its' mystery, a struggle to to make its' unknown known. Was it a brother to The Loving Spoonful? A cousin to The Salty Peanut or dear lovechild to two errant fingers? All that could be said for sure was that its' natural home was the shady world ruled over by The Dear Old Queen and her Consort, the silent, gone-before, Mr Malaprop.
Her Deaneries are those of Slip-of -the-tongue, The Grauniad, the Mists of Time; her subjects the Misunderstood, The Mis-spelled; Incorrect and Ancient Usage; the Silent Ones remembered only by the very old or are lost in the middle of a sentence. And all marshalled, when marshalling must be done, by the kindly Aides Memoires.
But the light of True Love is stronger than Curiosity and, as is so often the case, in its' beam the shyest ones of all may be tempted forth. And so it was, that in a flash, the true nature of The Malty Pement revealed itself in all its' shimmering glory. A Mal-Type-Ment! Unique, original, intricate and complex.
And so the Mal-Type-Ment and The Beholder knew each other for who they were and offered themselves for life, one to the other.
As you may have guessed, Dear Reader, the humble Beholder was but myself. As for The Mal-Type-Ment, for so long had it lived in whispering quiet that it chose to return to its' shade, The Malty Pement, and to take up residence in the pleasure of my heart, finding there many sweet and good companions.
And there it will remain, until we both are done.

After such a charming and sweetly-told tale it would be graceless, gauche and entirely gratuitous to point out that its' doesn't exist, it's it's for it is, and for belonging to it. So I'll leave it to A Pedant to enter that fray, and simply say to Anon: good to hear from you and thank you for responding to Maltypement!

...or was it a deliberate mal-type-ment, and I'm being obtuse?

Well, I was a little disappointed! Maybe I was being too clever.... but none of that matters. I had a great deal of pleasure from the Malty Pement and that's what counts.

Oh dear, it's robtheblunderfoot. And if Anon is who s/he might be, I've been arrantly rude... Should have iterated how tickled I was by the story, and tempted to throw in some more oddities to inspire you. You caught me in grim mood, on the eve of a Big Number birthday - the one that's rude in French. As Leonard has it: I ache in the places where I used to play.

robtherich, I hate to be a pedant but it's not it's for belonging to it, it's its.

Well Rob, I hope your birthday was better than you expected? I do hope so! As for the rest of it; as you may have guessed, my story was about one of the small wrinkles about being older, that of the confusion which can arise when one forgets a word. When words, things which I have always loved, for some reason, confuse or escape me, and the immense relief when clarification or remembrance arrives. The maltypement I saw confused me but gave me the opportunity to find great amusement about a tricky subject. So, as your Mal-Type-Ment was something of a gift to me, please regard my little story as a Birthday Present to yourself. With the wish that you find much to enjoy and entrance you as you get older, though my French has let me down! I can't quite work out how old you were. Much joy to you and your great sense of humour.

Terry - you're so right, and serve me right for over-quick reactions. .Hoist by my own petard.

Anon - very many thanks for kind and generous wishes. Soixante-neuf, since you ask!