Write or wrong? I’ve forgotten how to use a pen

If you’ve ever worked in a corporate environment you’ll know that, between birthdays, babies, redundancies and retirements, you’ll spend a fair bit of time being asked the question: “Have you signed [insert name]’s card?”

Typically, the most annoying (and persistent) person in the office has made it their responsibility to ensure that everyone has signed the card, which is awful news for someone like me because this inevitably exposes my greatest weakness: embarrassing handwriting.

This is an accurate recreation of exactly how I sign my name on official documents.Credit: Michael Howard

During a series of recent work farewells I found myself engaging in a familiar pattern of avoidance. Each time, I would hover near the giant goodbye card, feigning politeness, allowing others to sign first while pretending to be deep in thought. “Please, go ahead; I’m still thinking of something funny to write!”

Only once the crowd had dissipated would I sneak over and quickly scrawl my illegible goodbye, tucked away on whatever scrap of real estate remained. To this day I cringe, thinking of dearly departed colleagues doing their best to decipher my panicked message. “Does that say, “Last winter, Thanos”? (Best wishes, Thomas)

As far as I can tell, I am not alone in this complex relationship with the written word. Instead, it seems most people are mildly embarrassed by their own handwriting, likely because we rarely need to do it any more.

Of course, some still boast of their neat writing; these holier-than-thou high achievers blessed with perfect cursive are the same kind of people who proudly tell you they’ve never had a speeding ticket or missed a day of work.

But the rest of us have declined slowly since primary school. Back then, attaining one’s pen licence was an important milestone. Sure, there was no governing body policing the distribution of these licences, yet being presented with one felt as thrilling as a first kiss and as intoxicating as a first drink.

While younger kids were left to ply their trade with pencils – embarrassing! – you had reached the promised land. Once you go Bic, you never go back. But then you grow up, technology takes over every single aspect of your existence, and handwriting is no longer a part of your daily life.

Shopping lists like this now exist in your Notes app.Credit:

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.

My notes to the physio explaining that my back and shoulders really hurt.Credit: iStock

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?”

He glances at me, perhaps aware that my skill level is only marginally better than his own, before accepting he has no choice. Together, we sign the name ARCHIE, though I loop too long on the C, and it turns into an O. Long live AROHIE, son of THANOS.

Find more of the author’s work here. Email him at [e-mail] or follow him on Instagram at @thomasalexandermitchell and on Twitter @_thmitchell.

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