I am an old-school newspaper reporter with 40-odd years behind me.
The week before I started, Neanderthals were writing stories on the walls of their cave in the blood of some unfortunate beast they'd just slain.
A week later I was underway with my career and bashing out a Country Women's Institute report on an old-fashioned typewriter. And when I say "bashing" I mean bashing with a capital 'B'. Two-finger stuff with pointing fingers that became so strong that I could do a push-up on them.
And I never changed. Despite numerous editors etc expecting me to graduate from two fingers to four and then 10, I never did.
In fact, when the modern keyboard arrived some years back I discovered very quickly that they weren't built for my two fingers and I'd have to go ask the lady in the front office for a new one every now and then.
Anyway. What all this is leading to is the fact that I've written the very words you are reading now with just one finger of one hand. My other finger is joined to the hand that's joined to the arm that's in a sling at present.
Here's why.
Just the other day Mrs P and I were peering out of our conservatory window at the blustery, gusty, windswept conditions outside.
More specifically, we were looking at the new round table and two-chair set we had bought for a small fortune recently so that we could enjoy a cuppa on the patio.
We'd had it a week and hadn't had a chance to use it because of the weather.
I decided enough was enough and, despite her protestations, convinced Mrs P that we should throw caution to the wind, rug up warm and toasty, break out the best tea and china, have a giggle and go try it out, whatever the weather.
Now about here I should point out that I am not one to live what Billy Connolly calls a "beige" - read boring or uneventful - lifestyle. I believe in laughter, having a go and dancing at the supermarket if the music gets your blood pumping.
Having said that, I've noticed in recent years that acting a bit silly and doing the unexpected is more frowned upon that it was.
Perhaps at 45 you are allowed to do it because you're just a bit of a "character" whereas doing it at 58 risks an appointment being made for you with the men in white coats.
But I digress.
So, there we are braving the ice, snow and howling gale to have a cuppa at our new table. Mrs P is getting less impressed with every gust and the tea cups are threatening to join the caution we threw to the wind and which was last seen three streets over hurtling past the corner dairy.
Just as I'm about to give up and go inside, from the corner of my eye I notice movement. A large plastic storage bin is hurtling towards my beloved.
Now I don't know where it come from or how I did what I'm about to explain to you because it all happened very quickly, but I guess you could say I displayed the reflexes of a cat, albeit a bald, overweight, arthritic one.
As the evil bin leapt up from the ground a mere two feet in old money from Mrs P I thrust out my left arm to deflect it.
I am convinced the action saved my beloved from serious injury and told her as much over the next hour or so as she tended to my wounds.
To be honest, it was more bump and graze than anything but naturally I milked it for all it was worth. I got a nice lunch, a hot towel and oodles of, shall we say, er, physical sympathy.
As I say, I thought I'd avoided serious damage but a little while later, after the adrenalin had worn off, a bit of pain set in and some more medical assistance was required. It seems my lightning-quick reflexes (if I say so myself) had wrenched my shoulder tendons in a direction they'd never been before.
The upshot of all that is I've got my arm in a sling for a little while until things settle down. As a result, I am now reduced to bashing out this column with just one, very strong index finger.
Truth be told, I'm actually quite impressed with how well it's gone, although I have a feeling that my shoulder might not be the only thing that's worse for wear in my home office at the moment.
I think I've just broken another keyboard.
