Frustratingly, my wrists, especially my left, are still out of action.
On the ligament which runs from my palm to elbow, the pain is most acute – a searing kind of twinge.
This is not the first time the injuries interrupted my knitting.
I ignored the plea from my overworked hands before. And I ended up paying for it dearly – a handsome sum of £500 was spent on osteopathic treatments. Ouch! I learnt the virtue of being not so hasty thereafter…
So today, I was sorting out notes & scribbles which I had been accumulating during the last few projects.
I wish if I could say that I am a meticulous note-taker. Sadly, I am not.
The scribbles I create are nightmare to decrypt, even for me!
The manner of my handwriting is so throwaway and careless. It appals me.
Anyway, I thought that I’d better organise piles of the Post It notes and record them while my memory was still fresh…
You see, my writing is worse than child’s.
My late father was an amazing note-taker.
His diaries were filled with utmost care. And his handwriting so precise and delicate. It was almost to the point of being slightly feminine. Every letter was penned in between an equal spacing. Not even one letter was breaking the uniformity of the appearance by being too large or small. It was like he harnessed each letter in a perfect invisible square. How he came to log his diary in this manner, no one knew.
Anyway, it was a great shame that I didn’t inherit his dexterity.
I shake my head with despair every time I have to write birthday cards or Christmas cards…
