I’ve been doing a lot of writing these past few days. I’ve been typing so much that my fingers have splayed at awkward angles; if you turned me upside-down you could use me to rake up leaves. I’ve been churning it out, except for last Monday night when I was down in the pub bitching about Mary Hanafin and the way she might gawk at you. Oh, and except when I’m out walking, too. I haven’t mastered the art of typing whilst trotting (smartphone and all); the only thing my fingers have t...