I miss handwriting

Seems to me with every year that goes by, my writing gets worse. Not that I was ever that neat. My sister, now, she has the kind of pretty, rounded, immaculate script that could almost sit on an architect's plan. Me, not so much. Especially, not any more. I'm quite proud of my 70wpm typing, mind you, but I do wince when I look at my handwriting. I don't even seem to be able to hold a pen properly any more. I get this tetchy cramp down the side of my hand. It's very disappointing. See, I really like writing, as a manual process. Especially with a nice, soft pencil. I like the whispering, rhythmic movement across the page. And on a good day, I like the way my writing looks. Curvy, with cute little spikes and long, sexy tails. Completely illegible, mind, but pretty. High on flair, low on functionality - the Manolo Blahniks of handwriting, if you will.

But that's the thing with handwriting: it's all about functionality. Any time you write something that anyone else is intended to read - which is nearly every time you write anything - it's a bit rude to assume that the reader will admire the original way in which you connect o to f and consequently not mind about the actual content being a closely guarded secret. And this is where block letters come in. Supposedly this is the failsafe way to make sure your scrawl is legible - hence the anxious instructions on all kinds of form: PLEASE COMPLETE IN BLOCK CAPITALS. As a courtesy, I try to write in block capitals quite a lot, for fax headers etc. I have to do quite a lot of these in the course of a day's work. And every time, I wince. Because my block capitals are hideous. They are ugly. I have never gotten the hang of capital letters. Spiky in all the wrong ways, unbalanced, wonky. And it seems the harder I try to even it out, the clunkier it gets.

But what I wonder is this. Given that once, I was able to write acceptable block lettering - not beautiful, but not ugly - and given that even my regular longhand is getting worse and worse; will I reach a point at which I can no longer do any better than a scrawl, and that when pushed? Is handwriting officially dead? Because it's not just me, you know. I bet everyone's writing, except maybe primary school teachers, is on a steady decline.

Maybe handwriting is becoming one of those antique skills that serves no real purpose for the average citizen. Maybe it will dwindle, become unfashionable, something only sad old women do, and try to teach their uninterested grandchildren. Maybe it will eventually be rediscovered by people with too much downtime, like actors on film sets, spawning a weird retro craze, with a few dozen adepts leaping out of the closet crying 'Away, latecomers! I've been doing this all along!'

Maybe handwriting is the new knitting.

Boredom: not always bad

I did something momentous this weekend. I slew the purple monster. Possibly not as interesting as it sounds, this translates simply as: "I finished knitting a jersey (purple)." (And this is probably as far as anyone should read who doesn't have some interest in the fibre arts; or at least a macabre fascination with the bizarre fact that people really do this.)

But that really doesn't do it justice. It fails spectacularly to capture the significance of putting behind me, for good, the manymanymany hours of frustration and sometimes loathing that went into this jersey. It's not really one jersey, even. Oh, its final manifestation is but one jersey, yes. But it's really three. Or more, depending on how you're counting (I figure the amount of stitching I did, I could have made at least six jerseys, had no pulling out been involved).

[snipsnip: details excised for fear of causing readers to expire]

So anyway - and to the point of the title - I now get to knit something really, really straightforward. A rectangle, in fact. A nice wrap to solve the office aircon problem. (It doesn't work; it's either too cold or too hot, but usually too cold; so you need something handy to bundle over your regular clothes, and cardigans don't always work from a fashion point of view. In fact they don't often work, do they.) I'll be clacking away in proper granny style, on a nice lacy stole. Clack clack clack. I'll start going nuts soon enough - with no shaping to keep me on my toes - but it's a good easy stitch pattern, just busy enough to keep me enjoying it - no plain stocking stitch in sight -without requiring any actual attention. And this is the great part: it's pretty much guaranteed to work. No pulling out here. Happy sighs.

Party mathematics

1 hour primping (*)
+ 1 hour travelling
+ 40 minutes hobbling in search of the party (**)
+ £10 entry and cash bar
+ very bad drinks (***) in very small glasses
= disappointment.

The music was good, though.

And I did get a cute compliment.
Chap [leans forward, charming smile, good eye contact]: "You have a wonderful decolletage."
Self [returning smile]: "Why thank you!"
Chap [nods happily]: "I really mean it."

For the record, I wasn't wearing anything outrageous. Honest, guv. I might not wear that to work, but I'd wear it to a work party. So.

_____
* 1940s costume doesn't just happen, you know. The hair! The underwear!
** Our inviter and guide, bless her, didn't have a clue where she was going. And her shoes were even more impractical than mine. And her stockings were falling down. Poor lass. I've had nights like that.
*** I'm not that picky. Drinks:good, really. But I really couldn't stomach that wine. How bad does it have to be to get me to give up on a glass of red wine? Pretty darn horrible.

And so it begins

Everybody else is doing it, why can't I?

Well because I have to get dressed up for a party, for one. No time to blog. Must primp.

Stay tuned for a full report of the proceedings tomorrow.