We always accuse Smurfette of being �cack-handed� because she�s a lefty and has to struggle with can openers and scissors and general implements made for the right-handed majority. She generally regards the Leftorium as a good idea.

But sitting around drinking a glass (or several) of wine the other night I wondered if, despite being part of the majority, it�s me that�s cack-handed. Or cack-wristed.

My wrists don�t roll properly. Or at least not to the extent that I�d like. They are not, apparently, very flexible.

This is not something that is evident in every day life. There is no problem with typing or turning on a tap or any of those things.

But when the time comes to swirl a glass of wine knowledgably, or play the drums, I�m incapable.

No matter how hard I concentrate I cannot get that pinot to swirl in the glass. I can only get it to slosh back and forward dangerously. Thankfully the glasses are generally big enough to prevent me from covering myself in red wine most of the time. Not all of the time though. The more I drink the more likely I am to spill, but at least then I have an excuse. When I�m sober I�m so stiff-wristed that I can�t even pretend that I�m swirling successfully.

Not that I�m such a wine buff that I regard glass swirling as a vital part of my tasting experience. But I do tend to drink a bit of the stuff, and am starting to learn more about what�s good (i.e. what I like), and what�s cat�s piss (i.e. Chardonnay). I also find that glass swirling is not only required at an official or unofficial wine tasting, it�s also the natural thing to do with your glass when standing around chatting.

I never have any desire to swirl my beer bottle or glass when standing around chatting � though I am one of those who picks the label off my beer bottles � but it�s a compulsive habit when holding a wine glass. Undoubtedly made more compelling by the fact I can�t actually do it properly.

I believe it�s the same wrist defect that prevents me from playing the drums.

Not that I have any huge desire to take up the drums, but I�m pretty sure I couldn�t even if I wanted too. Boofhead plays the drums. He started learning when he was pretty young, maybe nine or ten. Having the bedroom next to his wasn�t always conducive to studying, reading, listening to other music or general peace and quiet while growing up. Though I did always take comfort with the fact that while my brother decided to play drums, at least he was good at it. If he�d been bad, I�m fairly sure he would have met with a mysterious and severe accident many years ago.

I was not immune to the potential pleasures of having a drum kit in the house. Who can resist the opportunity to bash things and make a really loud noise every now and then? I couldn�t. Though I worked out pretty quickly that the only rhythmic loud noise I was going to be making was on the bass drum where my foot controlled the pedal.

My wrists certainly weren�t capable of operating the sticks properly. And I don�t just mean the difficulties of moving between skins, or hand-foot-eye co-ordination. I�m talking about just the basic hitting a snare with a stick held in my right hand. You�re supposed to hold it relatively loosely in your hand and let the wrist do most of the work. (Hmmm. That sounds much dirtier than I intended). It just doesn�t work unless your wrist is relaxed. Which mine cannot or will not do. So I spent most of my time either bashing the middle of the stick into the rim of the drum, or threatening to punch a hole in the skin with the end of it. Thus I was quickly reduced to just thumping on the bass drum and keeping my hands to myself. (Nope, don�t think there�s anyway of rescuing the virtue of that paragraph, so I�m not even going to try.)

It also doesn�t seem unreasonable to blame my wrists for the fact I never became either a tennis champion or an Olympic gold medallist in gymnastics. Laziness and lack of talent having nothing to do it.

So the next time I�m drinking a glass of wine and compulsively sloshing it around in the glass (most likely tonight), I�ll pause in my frustration to blame the wrists for my lack of musical and sporting ability, and possibly to contemplate the implications of this entry for my subconscious and some of my old boyfriends.