I was beginning to think someone had chopped your typing fingers off, kid!

Now and again I find myself hunched over the computer in panic, the typing fingers paralysed by their awareness that they do not belong to a psychoanalyst.

If the point seems far-fetched it is not really that far: no more than the 30 inches or so that separate typing fingers from heartfelt conviction.

Might as well soak it up before we get the security guard to come break all the bones in your typing fingers.

Break her typing fingers.

Why don't you rest your typing fingers and have a look?

If this sounds melodramatic, consider that in evolutionary terms, there is little worse than a crippled typing finger in the E-commerce age.

When both of my typing fingers are blazing away at full speed, I have a tendency to type "compiyer" instead of "computer," for example.

And no matter that my typing finger was pinched last week by a giant land crab.

I won't use the term "cherry-picking", but it's right at the tip of my typing fingers!