Left Hand Man

The last blog attracted the grand total of about 30 readers and five likes. So instead of fighting through the pain barrier of a knackered typing hand to pour my soul into a 600-word column, I’d have been better off packing it in petits pois and posting photos of what I’m having for me tea.

The last blog attracted the grand total of about 30 readers and about five likes.

So instead of fighting through the pain barrier of a knackered typing hand last week to pour my soul into a 600-word column, I’d have been better off packing it in petits pois and posting photos of what I’m having for me tea.

It’s a ‘sigh’ of the times, you could say, and it occurred to me this week that in the golden days of film cameras, be it a 36 exposure or a 24-shot, you’d never have done that.

Taking a photograph of what you were eating for tea on a film camera would have struck most people as a bit odd.

Especially if you then went round all your friends and relatives’ houses to show them it in the hope of winning their approval.

This week I bought a new wrist support for the RSI-mangled right hand. All I need now is a neck support and I could double for Avid Merrion.

The pain in my right hand has made me realise just how underemployed my left hand has been all these years.

This week I’ve tried to get the lazy so-and-so off the dole.

I’ve noticed it’s willing to help out with typing, shoelaces, buttons and ties, but does very little else.

It never shakes hands with anyone, never makes a cup of tea, and never holds a pen or a telephone.

It can’t cut a loaf of bread, refuses to use scissors, won’t clean my teeth, catch a ball, throw a dart or hold a snooker cue.

In short, the right hand doesn’t know what the left hand’s doing.

I must say that the left hand does help out typing on the lap top and given that our entire lives are dominated by the internet, that can’t be underestimated.

As I read this week, we are all ‘Netizens’ now. That’s one of those vomit-rising post-Millennial portmanteaus which makes me want to reach for the sick bucket, as is referring to unsolicited junk mail as ‘spam,’ which doesn’t.

Spam is an underrated cheap tin of chopped pork and ham, and to prove it I’m going to have some for my tea and take a photograph of it to get my hits up.

And speaking of Netizens, I heard on the radio that the television show Neighbours has come off the air after 37 years.

Probably because in many places, people no longer give a stuff who their neighbours are anymore.

The concept of a soap opera, where different busy bodies from next door come in and out of your life all day, probably doesn’t carry much traction in a time when all of our friends and relatives live in our phones.

If it was in my gift, they should take the Neighbours theme tune to Russia and mount giant speakers in Red Square – play it endlessly until Putin is pushed into that final game of Russian roulette with himself.

In other news, it has become clear I am now a paid-up member of the Divorced Dad’s Club.

Shite Club, as I’m inclined to call it. The first rule of Shite Club is: you do not talk about your ex.

Which is just as well given that the committee rules of the membership-only social club I have joined are very explicit about bad language.

Invariably in our late Forties and Fifties, we compare one-bedroom flats, show each other photographs of our kids and talk about them while trying not to choke up, and rue those days we worked so hard only to sign it all away.

We hold spontaneous, unorganised meetings on random days like Monday or Wednesday nights, when the married men are not allowed out to play and are at home fulfilling unnecessary DIY jobs having been set arbitrary deadlines.

It occurs to me, as I look at another empty glass and hear another Weekend Dad talking about missing his kids, that if I’d spent less time enjoying myself reading books about politics and literature, and more time reading up on domesticated subjects such as how to put up a shelf, I might not have been left on one.

Bugger that for a massive game of.

I’d rather be a Lone Ranger and listen to Bob Dylan’s It Aint Me Babe (1964)… as I try to open a tin of Spam with a work shy left hand.