In the week that I decided to write about how phobias are underpinned by a fear of death, I noticed I was developing pains in my right hand. Repetitive strain injury? Arthritis? I’m not sure. It was, of course, my writing hand, my mouse hand, my tea-drinking hand, my almost-everything-hand.
Two paragraphs in, and my right hand is creaking, as it dominantly bears the burden of typing. It’s an aching, utilitarian memento mori. Higher up the body, my elbow is also making its displeasure known. Death is winking at me, reminding me that my flesh and bones are mortal. You want death? Here’s the amuse-bouche, a little taste of arthritis. Just wait till the main course, he cackles, and the dessert is to die for.