In which I need more than a hand

My wife is a remarkably patient woman. I can go for days without expressing an opinion, infuriating her with phrases like "I'll have whatever you're having", only to react with zero tolerance to the smallest piece of advertising hyperbole. Today she finds me standing on a metaphorical soapbox, channelling the spirit of Tom Paine. "It's the theme for Viva Lewes magazine. They've chosen 'handmade'. I can't write a column about that. I think I'm hyperventilating." Mrs B raises an eyebrow. "Breathe into this", she says, and passes me the paper bag she keeps handy for these occasions. “Anyway, what’s bothering you?”

Well, as far as I'm concerned, 'handmade' is an empty word that's usually hyperspecific or uselessly vague. I'd argue it's as counter-intuitive as 'homemade', which is commonly used by restaurants to indicate that the relevant component of your meal was cooked in their own kitchen. In that sense, 'homemade' is actually meant to reassure us that our food wasn't made in anyone's home.

Similarly, I reckon 'handmade' has little to offer but confusion. To start with, it tells us the product isn't natural. In this sense it's the same as 'man-made' - which is reminiscent of 1970s shirts that generated enough of a static charge for the wearer to shoot electricity from their fingertips like a superhero. 'Handmade' means the item wasn't formed independently by our planet, unlike spring water, kittens and bananas. It's artificial. Yet 'handmade' also warns us that the end product isn't much good. It's not laser-cut to within a fraction of a millimetre. It's not precision engineered on a lathe. It's not been assembled by robots on a computer-controlled production line. Chances are, it's a bit rough around the edges. Artificial and imperfect. It's hardly a recommendation, is it?

Of course, there are exceptions. I'd like my art to be handmade, thank you. (Unless the artist chooses to employ another part of their anatomy.) But I'm not worried if the baker uses a mechanical mixer when making my bread.

I can tell my ranting isn't going down well at home, so I pop out for a walk round the block. On my travels I discover the recently opened and appropriately named ‎Café Ringmer (note the accent), where I order a cappuccino. The woman behind the counter creates my drink with the help of a serious-looking espresso machine. I wonder whether there ought to be a new phrase for 'handmade with the help of technology'. Maybe something sci-fi like 'cyborg-crafted' or 'mecha-enhanced employee' would be a better description. As I sip my coffee, I realise that I don't care about 'handmade'. What I care about is care itself. And if we’re using ‘handmade’ as a synonym for ‘made with care’, I’m perfectly happy with that. Because care is something that only comes from people. Much like opinions, I suppose. I’m sure Mrs B will be delighted that I’ve finally found one.

First published in Viva Lewes magazine issue 107 August 2015