Shopping lists now live in the Notes app, pen pals are just friends you text, and almost everyone has a job that requires some variation of tapping letters into a computer. Occasionally you might pretend to take notes in a meeting, but these are usually distraction doodles designed to fool the people around into believing you are conscientious.
Unfortunately, despite our significant technological advancements, the need to write cannot be totally eliminated.
A recent visit to the physio (ironically, to deal with a bad case of HOLS, Hunched Over Laptop Syndrome) brought me face to face with a poor penman’s worst enemy: new patient forms. Pages upon pages of questions, each line offering nowhere near enough room to accommodate my errant script.
To make matters worse, the receptionist was adamant it “shouldn’t take long” and so lingered beside me, watching the chaos unfold.
At first the letters were too close, crammed like commuters under a bus shelter during a storm. Panicked, I tried a different tack and opted for capital letters only, the handwriting of choice for men over 50. This gave the impression I was angry about everything, especially my TIGHT SHOULDERS AND NECK.
By the time I reached the medical history section of the form, the hand cramp was so unbearable I scribbled ‘RSI’ to the list of ailments and hoped for the best.
As I sit and write this column – to be clear, type, not handwrite – my nearly two-year-old son is pottering nearby, awkwardly wielding a crayon. He eventually makes it to the enormous piece of butcher paper laid out for him, attacks it viciously with the crayon and then steps back to admire his handiwork.
Pleased with whatever he has produced (it’s awful, but who am I to judge?), he waddles over to my wife and proudly shows her, who praises it without even stopping to look. “Oh, you’re so clever! Now, why don’t you ask Daddy to help write your name?”