Further ramblings of a self-made pauper

I have not yet started packing; I shall do that shortly while Furtle is Warcrafting. She has broken the back of her packing requirements, though it is likely that a decant into another bag (one with wheels and a handle, similar to the one, for instance, that I have been trying to lend her...) will be needed.

As a final run through the stuff she needs to take, she asked me to read her (very long) checklist back to her.

Now, I'm not saying that her handwriting leaves something to be desired, but amongst the bits I could decipher, there were these gems that had us rolling around in mirth:

Eye Mash, which turned out to be the less alarming eye mask (for sleeping on the plane);
Tit Paste(!), which it transpires is rather less interesting "T&T paste" or toothbrush and toothpaste;
fissures, which I managed to decode into the more reasonable tissues; and finally,
Dead Rat, which I am assured is the rather less pungent and more fragrant deodorant.

Travel with Furtle is not dull by any means.

You know, it's a strange thing, the relentless march of technology.

The latest manifestation of its influence on our lives (or at least my life) came just now while I was writing out a couple of Christmas cards to send to my parents and sister. For the first time in my life I shan't be spending Christmas at home, so I have to send cards - and cheques for the Christmas pressies, since my attempts to buy on-line, with the exception of a CD for my eldest niece have met with utter failure. This largely because there is a discrepancy in what size coat Mum thinks she needs and the actual size coat that will fit. And Dad has suddenly, after 85 years grown an extra shoe size. Send money, Bryan, don't try to be clever; it rarely works.

Anyway. Technology.

These days I only ever seem to use a pen to write the odd cheque or sign my name, other than rapidly scribbled minutes of meetings in my own illegible speed-written shorthand. Proper handwriting for anything longer than say 10 lines is almost unknown and has been for some years. Except at Christmas, when cards have to be written. Sure, they also get written at birthdays and such, but it's only at Christmas that the volume handwriting kicks in. Everything else conforms pretty much to the ten line rule.

I am happy to say that I still remember how to write with a pen, and my hand writing is pretty much as it always was; I haven't forgotten how. When I'm not rushing I like to think that my handwriting is clear and relatively pleasant to look at, but by crackey, am I rusty.

I kept missing letters out while I was writing - my brain was moving much faster than my hand (and anyone who's met me will testify as to how astonishingly slow my brane works)- and my eyes were watching in detached astonishment at the foreshortened words that were coming out of the pen.

At some point over the past ten years, I have switched from being a writer to being a typist, and unless I can think of a reason for picking up a pen in anger more often, I don't see how the situation will ever revert, or even if I want it to. But it's a really odd feeling, realising that you are so out of practice using a pen to write, that you have to think about it a little.