It has been growing on my mind (and the likes of parents have commentated – “but you used to have such lovely hand-writing Nick!” – untrue, it was OK) but I can’t write anymore. My penmanship looks like Michael Parkinson sent a free Parker Pen to the fucking monkey house (just for enquiring). I struggle with it when it comes to birthday cards and such.
Why is this? I mean I’m educated and all… Well, sort of. Apart from a single 10 cred module in philosophy (Descartes) at University in 1992 I just haven’t really had to write anything more complicated than a shopping list. That was 22 years ago. I can type like a fury. I guess it is much the same way most British adults have a driving license but would have no idea what to do with a coach and eight. It’s called progress.
Having said all that I can still paint and draw in the oldie manner. It is not a loss of Manuel Dexterity (didn’t he have a bad game against the Dutch last night) but rather pure lack of usage of my hands for a pacific porpoise.
I can still do math stuff but nobody really judges you on that because it just looks like squiggles to most people anyway.
Oh, well, c’est la vie!