Living in a Left-Handed
World
by Gilly Fraser
I’m beginning
to wonder just what my left hand has been doing
all its life. All these years it’s gone its
own way, swinging blithely along at the end of my
arm, quite content to let my right hand do the
bulk of the work. Whether through sheer laziness,
or if it was being shoved into the shadows by the
more dominant personality of right, I might never
have known - might never even have noticed there
was a discrepancy, had it not been for right hand
getting itself smashed up along with several
other parts of my anatomy when flung
unceremoniously from a horse into a stone wall.
Now it’s encased in a heavy white plaster
cast, and left is having to do a full day’s
work.
Its first task in
a public place - to sign my name as permission
for the surgeon to do what he liked to right hand
while the rest of me was under general
anaesthetic sent left hand into a blue funk.
Gripping the pen was bad enough, but when it was
actually asked to create joined-up letters on the
page, it crumpled under the strain. A hen which
had first walked through dirt and then taken a
stroll across the document would have managed a
more accurate imitation of my normal signature.
The whole
experience has made me totally reassess my
relationship with my two hands. I now see that
I’ve taken Right for granted, just assuming
it would get on with any and all of the myriad
tasks set before it in the course of any one day.
That could take in everything from writing, to
opening a jar, to brushing my hair, to operating
a computer mouse. Left hand is fine for the
sturdier and less imaginative tasks, like
changing gear in the car, or lifting the kettle
to pour water into a cup. But give it anything
requiring the least degree of subtlety, and it
turns into a bumbling idiot.
Who could believe
the complications and the need for concentration
involved in a simple procedure like brushing your
teeth? If you’ve never tried, let me ask you
just one thing - have you ever had toothpaste up
your nose? However, we can all learn, and my left
hand is no exception. After just a few days in
the job, it’s beginning to get the hang of
things. This morning only two dollops of butter
were left on the breakfast bar, my clothes went
on in more or less the proper order and facing
the correct direction, and I managed to get right
hand settled into its sling without throttling
myself, so there is hope.
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