Hi Rynner. Yes, life throws some weird things at you. I don't know if receive more than my share, similar to those people who win the Lotto a few times in a row, using the same numbers, or people like the American woman who's been struck five (7 times?) times in a row by lightning; as if the tape gets stuck or loops every now and then. Speaking of the lightning-cursed woman, it seems there's nothing she can do to protect herself. After already being struck several times, she was at the sink, indoors apparently, when a lightning strike several miles away travelled through the ground, through her home's plumbing, through her kitchen tap and struck her at her sink ! My weirdnesses are much less dramatic and painful. Sometimes I wonder if the same things happen to everyone, but, unlike me, they just don't bother commenting about it? Usually I don't either, apart from here in the threads.
Sorry, OT. Back to the handwriting. As an adult, when counting, dealing with interruptions, phone calls, staff and other problems and jotting things down, you don't usually give much thought to how well you're writing. It's not for display, certainly not the especially careful way you may write a greeting in a birthday or other card. So the stock-take slips were hurriedly written; only care given was with regard to quantities and codes. When my male counterpart's writing and my own were side by side, it was uncanny. I selected for particular inspection the way I'd written (for instance) 'A' and the 's', and the number '8', because I'd developed a non-ordinary method of writing these over the years, for some reason. 'G' was another; people often pick me up on that. Side by side, the writing and numerics within the samples looked as if they'd been written by the same person. So close, that when originally presented with the pages actually written by my male counterpart, I truly believed I'd written them myself; it was my writing, my funny way of doing things (although from his point of view, they were his). Only other time I've been similarly speechless was when presented by my bank manager with a document containing my signature on a loan application. Another I-must-be-going-mad moment, because to my eyes, it was my signature. I had no qualms about identifying it, even on close inspection. But that had been drafted by a professional forger, it later transpired, on behalf of someone I knew rather well. I had made no such loan application and was freed of responsibility.
After shutting down my computer last night, I remembered that the man with whom I'd shared so many characteristics had jumped from a bridge or something. This was quite some time after I'd worked with him and was totally unrelated to me. I only heard about it when I bumped into an ex-colleague. I have a feeling he might have died. I felt nothing at all, when I received this information. Strange. Normally I would have had a few moments of feeling dreadful. But I didn't.
Sorry, OT. Back to the handwriting. As an adult, when counting, dealing with interruptions, phone calls, staff and other problems and jotting things down, you don't usually give much thought to how well you're writing. It's not for display, certainly not the especially careful way you may write a greeting in a birthday or other card. So the stock-take slips were hurriedly written; only care given was with regard to quantities and codes. When my male counterpart's writing and my own were side by side, it was uncanny. I selected for particular inspection the way I'd written (for instance) 'A' and the 's', and the number '8', because I'd developed a non-ordinary method of writing these over the years, for some reason. 'G' was another; people often pick me up on that. Side by side, the writing and numerics within the samples looked as if they'd been written by the same person. So close, that when originally presented with the pages actually written by my male counterpart, I truly believed I'd written them myself; it was my writing, my funny way of doing things (although from his point of view, they were his). Only other time I've been similarly speechless was when presented by my bank manager with a document containing my signature on a loan application. Another I-must-be-going-mad moment, because to my eyes, it was my signature. I had no qualms about identifying it, even on close inspection. But that had been drafted by a professional forger, it later transpired, on behalf of someone I knew rather well. I had made no such loan application and was freed of responsibility.
After shutting down my computer last night, I remembered that the man with whom I'd shared so many characteristics had jumped from a bridge or something. This was quite some time after I'd worked with him and was totally unrelated to me. I only heard about it when I bumped into an ex-colleague. I have a feeling he might have died. I felt nothing at all, when I received this information. Strange. Normally I would have had a few moments of feeling dreadful. But I didn't.
