Handwriting n stuff

Handwriting seems to be a lost art these days. I was texting a mate about it today. Her computer was down at work and there was nothing she could do without it, so she was stumped. I suggested she write a blog, but she said ‘d’oh, my computer’s down – how can I write a blog?’. At my suggestion of practising her handwriting she snorted and said she doubted she even knew how any more. Now this is a sad indictment. I still have what used to be called a writer’s bump on my second finger which is being kept alive by shopping lists alone. Seems unfair that my hand should be blighted with so little cause. Although its beauty was marred early in my life during one of my parents’ dinner parties. While the guests were in the sitting room (we used to call it the drawing room but I’m told that’s too grand) I was in the kitchen doing handstands against the wall. Instead of having my whole hand flat against the floor I had just the fingers on the floor and the palms were vertical. This meant that when I fell over I managed to bruise my fingers so badly that they swelled and reddened like tomatoes on the vine. Only a lot quicker. Fast enough, in fact, for my blood-curdling screams to bring every guest running from the sitting room to catch the murderer. There was a gasp as I raised my right hand and proudly showed the huge purple knuckles to the crowd and turned my tear stained face to my parents. My knuckles have been swollen ever since.

This wasn’t the first party of my parents’ that I have interrupted. When I was at boarding school I used to call my parents about twice a term to satisfy myself that they were missing me. On one occasion I rang (reverse charges of course – at that time my pocket money was 7p per week, all of which was spent on toffee logs and fruit salads in the tuck shop) to ask if I could get the school to buy me a new tennis racquet. My mother was in the middle of hosting a party and when the phone rang and a crackly voice asked if she would accept the charges she began to panic. As a far-flung family one always expects the worst from emergency phone calls. My reedy voice asking how she was did not have the calming effect I was hoping for and she screeched the obvious questions; ‘what’s it is? What’s wrong?’. I explained that I had seen a tennis racquet that I wanted and that it cost £9.00. Was it alright for me to order it from the school? With gritted teeth my mother explained that the reverse charge call had cost approximately twice the value of the tennis racquet. Yes, I could have the bloody thing, yes she and my father were fine, yes, she missed me and please could I get off the line now! Picture my little face as I hung up. Yess! I could get the new Slazenger! I would definitely beat Bow Wow now!