Chomping down

As some of you will know I have been 'blessed' with rather unique digits. My fingers are - too put it in the Bruce McAveney vernacular - 'special'.

I have what is known in the medical fraternity as quasi clubbing. This means that as my chubby little fingers reach their terminus they flatten and spread.

In less cultured company my 'affliction' leads me to be referred to as hobbit hands.

True clubbing is quite rare and it seems that doctors are taught to look out for this when seeing patients as it is often a symptom of congentive lung disease. As a result whenever I go to see a doctor, no matter the reason for my visit, my fingers will invariably draw their attention. Now if I had true clubbing, and the corresponding lung illness, I would find the eagle eyes of the medical profession to be a boon. However, as a quasi clubber this unwanted attention just ends up being annoying.

For example playing rugby at school I had my share of injuries. Once my hand slipped into a scrum machine just as we packed down. This resulted in three fingers getting caught in the springs. And my coach, mistaking my screams of agony as an indication of willingness to go hard, exhorted the boys behind me to 'drop, squeeze and drive'. It was only when I dropped, to my knees, that they stopped, and my mangled fingers came clear.

Feeling a little sore and sorry I was more than a little miffed when having reached the medical practice for repair (three needles per finger and then a tweezer job to pluck the shattered nails out of the pads in case you were wondering) the doctor was so intrigued by my hands that he called all the other doctors into the room. Not to fix me up, but rather to have a gander at my fingers and a lengthy discussion as to whether I should be whisked off for a chest x-ray.

Were I born on the other side of the world hands such as mine might make me truly special, as opposed to speeeshial. In Holland for example, should a hole appear in the dike it would be my time to shine. My broad, flattened fingers would fill twice the gap of those of you with fine elfin appendages.

I think it no measure of hubris to suggest I may have gone on to become a national treasure there.

But luck would have it that I was born down under, where, other than as a training tool for junior medicos, my fingers have seemingly served little purpose other than as a source of endless frustration when dealing with those pesky little keyboards on mobile phones.

All this changed last week when our little bundle of joy started to teethe.

In order to minimise the pain of having his teeth come through Harry will jam anything his chubby (correctly formed) hands can shove into his mouth, and then chomp down with copious quantities of drool and a contented gurgle.

And my fingers appear to be have the perfect combination of shape, consistency and availability. As a result a good part of my day is now spent with a four month old baby locked onto my hand chewing away with gay abandon.

And while I will never receive the Order of the Orange-Nassau for saving the kingdom of the Netherlands from a watery grave, the look of unalloyed joy that Harry shares with me while he munches on my 'claws' makes all the frustration when texting, and the annoyance at the doctors, well worth while.