Right Handed Biscuits

I’ve got one of those bossy sons; “You ought to do this, or that”, “Have you ever thought of…” – you get the picture. My wife, who is foreign (no connection with the bossiness), had to return home to a family funeral, and my son and family settled into our home for the few days that she was away.

Every thing was fine, except for three things. Firstly, he had to modify completely his projected programme. Apart from himself being very tired because of his job, he soon dropped the day that started “visit zoo, lunch, visit steam train” as he saw my pace at eating, dressing etc. The second thing took me back a bit, as he baulked and ran when I asked for help in the shower. I hadn’t taken him for a prude after his university friend had told of finding him in the middle of a game of strip poker with two female students, a game that he was about to lose – on purpose, obviously, well I mean, things like that stick out don’t they?

However, the third thing has become part of the family law. He arrived at my bedside the first morning with a cup of tea, so thoughtful. And a “Right handed biscuit”. “What’s a right handed biscuit?” I grunted. “You only get tea in bed provided you promise to eat the biscuit with the right hand”. Nasty unfeeling brute. Worse was to come. When K. returned home, she keenly continued the new regime and applied it to all biscuits and cakes. I may have lost weight.

I’m reluctant to share the next bit, mainly because I know that the two of them will read these notes. My right arm has become stronger and has a little more control. So much so that six months after this ordeal/regime began, I was photographed at a wedding with a glass of champagne in my hand. My right hand. It was the first time that I have lifted a full glass or cup to my lips without expecting to pour some down my front. But in a way, I was bullied into that as well, as it was outside and my strong hand was helping me maintain balance by holding my posh ‘going out’ stick. So I had to drink the toast with my reluctant hand.

Shopped!

Has it really taken me six months to go from biscuit to glass? I think that my early despair may have been deeper if I’d known that. Will it take another six months before I can trust the hand to give me, say, the second glass of my favourite tipple (that I’ve paid for and therefore begrudge spilling)? And when can I begin the journey towards shaving?

So, it looks as though he was right to bully me. But that still doesn’t mean that I’m putting him back in the will!

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About dw

I’m old. Well, I’m nearly 74. And I was half paralyzed by stroke in March 2005. So I sit around all day “Trying to find lots of things not to do”—as the song has it. I’ve spent a little time and money tracing the ancestors, and yes, I’ve got drunkards and prostitutes among them. So, it’s a fairly normal family really. see worsleytree.org for the gruesome details. As the Irish comedian used to say “Let your God go with you”

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