Dear Jane,

I have some bad news about gloves to report to you. They can become ‘external organs’ - they become extensions of the hand and body, EXTRA HANDS, MORE HANDS, a MULTIPLICITY OF HANDS. They ‘gentle’ the hand when you put them on, making the hand an object of display. What’s worse than a hand, Jane? An independent, active hand, grabbin’ an’ gesticulatin’? It’s a GLOVE, a limp little sock of material, ACTING ON A HAND, stroking the encased flesh, giving it a taste of its own lasciviously tactile medicine, objectifying it. Hands can be naked. Suddenly, my naked hand seems obscene, feral, teeth bared. Worst of all, gloves come in PAIRS. They can be split up - a single glove looses it utility, it is no longer tied to its function and it becomes a FETISH ITEM. And if I gave you one of my gloves, we would be bound together, my friend, by some hideous superfluity of limp little glove-hands, and that limp little glove hand would be an extension of ME. Hideous.

Best,

Lucy

♦ ♦ ♦

Dear Lucy,

You may have noticed I never wear gloves, or hats or scarves. Now, let me tell you why. I intensely dislike the sensation of something emulating the shape and form of my own body. I have to suppress the impulse to vomit when a hat tries to bend to the shape of my head, or a scarf breathes down the back of my neck, or a glove tenderly strokes the contours of my fingers. It’s too claustrophobic, it’s too close for comfort. I tried on a hat for size the other day, and I do believe it was trying to make a mould of my cranium. I have thus reached the logical conclusion that winter accessories secretly memorise the shape of the wearer’s limbs. One day, when the hapless wearer tries to remove their hat, scarf and gloves, the air will refuse to go out of them; they will not return to shapeless scraps of material. In fact, they will puff themselves up to their full height, and, infused with synthetic life, become a body robber! And like the parasite who feeds off the body of its host until it has sucked from them the juice of life, the poor soul who has the ill-luck to over-wear their winter warmers will crumple up like a swathe of material. Next thing they know, and they are thrown over some bed like a sheet, and a hideous caricature of themselves, with a leering grin fashioned from a chopped tomato, will curl up underneath their flattened carcass and duly begin to practice the human snore.

Best,

Jane

Dear Jane,

I had a feverish night. As I tossed and turned, it came to me: my hands are in cahoots with each other. There’s two of them, and only one of me! Hardly a fair match. And it’s not like they’re equals either - my left hand is just a slavish puppy dog, following the whims of it’s stronger brother, monsieur right hand, brains of the operation. Imagine one day a butcher boy cycles past with a string of sausages trailing from the basket of his bike. Those boys will be chasing after those meaty comestibles, towing me along behind them on the terrible leash that my arms will have become, an unwilling partner in their carnivorous crime.

Back in the days when I was the least talented and most unwilling member of a little ensemble known as the Hillhead strings, I was forced to think about my prehensile pals all the time. They were in training. Every night, I had to sit and squeeze a tennis ball with my left hand - runt of the litter - to build up his puny muscles. He grew strong and muscular, a strapping young lad. He was always at the gym, on the treadmill, the exercise bike – he even took up pilates to work on his ‘core strength and balance’. Yet though the left hand presses, never pings on the strings, he must nevertheless team strength and vigour with the grace and poise of the male ballet dancer. ‘I must hold myself as if I were plucking a strawberry from a basket’, he would say to me, flexing his metacarpals and proximal phalanges. ‘Light in my grasp, exerting gentle but firm pressure’, that was his mantra. And no longer was he the mere ‘gauche little friend on the other side’ to Herr Righthand, Regis Professor of Dexterity at the University of Whyamiwritingthis. Tragically, though as buff as the circus strongman in his red and white leotard, he could never quite muster the requisite testosterone to grow the traditional Victorian handle-bar moustache. This prompted him to turn to steroids, and he grew to a monstrous size, each swollen digit sprouting an elaborate plume of hair that no amount of brylcreem could tame. Down boy! I had to chop him off… I just had to chop him off. Thus ending my promising musical career. Thwarted, again.

My hand is very tactile. He is very sensitive, and of a nervous disposition. This makes him both needy and grasping, always reaching, trying to make some kind of connection with the world around him, clinging tenaciously to passing objects and people. Yet his outgoing persona masks a terrible psychological cleave in his personality. One minute, you’re talking to Palm - vivacious, outgoing, always open. Cooooee! She calls, waving to you from across the room, playfully wiggling her fingers at you - the saucepot! Sure, she’s got a few lines but you would too if you were always just creasing up with laughter! She’s a good listener, too. ‘Talk to the hand.’ Well, that’s our Palmmy for you - a real good time gal and a real good gal pal. So there you are, having a natter when all of a sudden Palm just turns her back on you and you’re in the presence of Dorsal. Oh man, is he one angry guy! Or maybe he’s just shy - either way, he won’t turn and face you all night. Oh boy, is he screwed-up! Look at him, clenched up in a fist of rage. He probably got bullied at school for having such a stupid, inconveniently un-human name. What a tool. Let’s leave. This party stinks.

Best,

Lucy

♦ ♦ ♦

Dear Lucy,

The other day, I found myself peering down at a singular hand of mine, lets call him Palmaris Brevis, or, as he prefers, Patatas Bravas, and observed him scuttling to and fro, busy as a bee, engaged in such trifles as picking up pieces of paper, flushing toilets, and positively throwing himself into each task with a certain amount of gusto I quite frankly found rancid. It all came to a head as I, from my vantage point, happened to notice him fretting over a joint of meat. This troubled me, as I had not instructed him to undertake such a pursuit. It was at this moment that I, the casual observer, realised that this hand of mine had nothing to do with me. The two of us were completely unconnected! With this revelation, I narrowed my eyes slyly, and continued to observe the Other from the relative safety of the corner of my vision. He, unaware his cover had been blown, started preparing the meat with such dexterity, I was quite astounded. I knew that if I had been pulling any strings at all, if I was anything akin to a puppet-master, the meat would not have been seasoned or prepared so expertly. In fact, I am quite convinced it would have been undercooked and downright rubbery. I am, after all, no chef. The knowledge of my previous inadequacy in the kitchen was enough to excite suspicion; it was impossible that I could have developed such panache and flair with a CV of ready meals and beans. As I nonchalantly chewed the Chicken Cordon Bleu Casserole, I pondered the fact that there are often occasions when I experience difficulty, if not downright buffoonery, at the hands of my, err, hands. There were times when the old hands seemed to lose all instinct and initiative and appeared to hibernate. After much chewing, I came to the conclusion that this malady occurs when I over-think situations, and have thus robbed my hands of their natural autonomy. When I am busy panicking about how to open a door, or get the lid off a juicer, or operate a peanut machine, my poor hands become an extension of these frail and insubstantial inclinations, and cannot exert their proper influence; they flail, as impotent as sausage pulp. For instance, every day I have to enter a combination code to get into work. My hands, knowing this little ditty off by heart, do it automatically. However, ask me to recite the combination code, and I cannot do it. I have absolutely no idea! It was then I had a brainwave. If I wanted to succeed in life and put an end to my days as an impractical, blundering wreck unable to operate efficiently in society and change lightbulbs, then I must give my hands free reign. I must abdicate and let my hands be the sole governors. The constant power struggle between myself and my hands had become all too much. Only one could be in command. I made my decision, and without another moments thought, I threw off my crown, and let my hands step up to the parapet. They did so with a certain zeal I, again, found rather distasteful. It was unfortunate my last experience as a sentient being was sour. I am now merely a hollow encasing with two boisterous rat-like appendages.

Best,

Patatas Bravas