Right Hand
Vicki Feaver, 21 November 1991
“... Ever since, in an act of reckless middle age, I broke my wrist learning to skate, my right hand refuses to sleep with me. It performs the day’s tasks stiffly, stoically; but at night slides out from the duvet to hollow a nest in the pillow like an animal gone to ground in a hole in the hedge whose instinct says have nothing to do with heart, lungs, legs, the dangerous head ... ”