They call it an essential tremor. Which is odd, because I’ve had it for years and I’ve yet to find a single bloody use for it.
Is it a superpower? Is there a comic book hero somewhere called The Vibrator? (Let’s not Google that.)
I mean, if uncontrollably spilling tea counts as a skill, I’m basically a Jedi.
At night, I twitch like a startled haddock being tasered by a jazz band. Mary says it’s like sleeping next to someone trying to send Morse code with their knees.
I say: “It’s essential.”
She says: “It’s a bloody nuisance.”
I say: “That’s not very supportive.”
She says: “Neither is the mattress after you flail yourself across it like a wounded gazelle.”
The real challenge is carrying drinks. Honestly, it’s like cheese rolling but with crockery. I leave the kitchen with a mug and arrive in the living room with a mug-shaped puddle and a faint smell of scorched thigh.
It’s not so much shaken, not stirred—more like spilled, apologised for, and mopped up with a tea towel that’s seen things.
On a good day, I can get 90% of the liquid to the cup. On a bad day, I just lick it off my own sleeve and call it “espresso mist.”
Now, Typing? Oh yes, my fingers now do jazz hands. I try to write “toast” and end up with “toarst.” Autocorrect’s given up. Every email looks like I’m being held hostage by a mischievous octopus.
I once tried to type “Thanks” and sent “Thabks.” That’s not gratitude—it’s the sound you make when you drop a stapler on your foot.
Which brings us to this morning.
One hand shook coffee across the floor. The other mis-judged a slice of toast so badly I ended up jamming myself in the ear. Mary just watched in silence, like Attenborough observing a clumsy walrus trying to build a gazebo.
By 9am I’d already had two spills, a jam-based injury, and a short existential crisis over whether I should just drink everything through a straw and start wearing a bib.
But it’s fine. It’s fine. You’ve got to laugh.
Just maybe stand back when I raise my mug. I can’t guarantee what direction the splash zone will go.