God knows I’m no psychologist, but something tells me that most of my neighbours are suffering from an advanced and expensive form of anxiety. Nothing else can explain the armed response warnings all over their properties and the rabid hyaenas that lope unrestrained through their park-like gardens. Not only that, but a considerable number of them have replaced their sleek sportscars, sleeker limos and gratuitously muddy 4x4s with elderly Toyotas all in a vain attempt to avoid hijacking and its associated discontents. Problem number one was where to get fresh or even used human hands. The usual channels of inquiry lead nowhere, so I decided to substitute monkey hands instead. Vervet monkeys are common as rats in this city and although much smaller than humans, their little black hands are extremely similar to ours. I figured, since they were so much smaller, I would need a lot more of them to achieve the same effect. About a dozen say, or maybe 14. I seemed to remember that they came only in matched pairs. The SPCA was curiously unhelpful. So too was the Council for the Rehabilitation of Wildlife (Crow), and Beauty Without Cruelty totally failed to understand the subtlety of my idea.