THE CAMARADERIE OF THE STICK
For the past few days, for reasons I might make clearer in a future post, I have been using a walking stick to get about. And by 'get about' I mean 'moving at a pace that has slugs tutting and demanding to be let past'.
There are three main reasons for my use of this metal and rubber implement. It takes a bit of pressure off my faulty appendage, hopefully aiding recovery. I can cope better with the uneven pavement surfaces (and it's only when you find yourself with a wonky lower limb that you suddenly realise just how undulating our walkways are). Plus it provides a handy visual warning to strangers that the person in front of them has the agility of a supertanker and should be given a wide berth.
It certainly works in making me look pathetic. I got on an almost empty bus and a grey haired lady, who must have been at least fifteen to twenty years my senior, offered me her seat! (Residual pride made me decline.)
And it has also got me into a conversation based on the gait it imposes. Walking along Princes Street in my enforced low-velocity manner, I could see a creature approaching who mirrored my movements. When we eventually met, after many seconds had passed, we exchanged greetings and sanguine acceptances, moving quickly to the most important question - what was the problem?
He won that one. Having woken up in extreme pain one morning to then be told he had severe osteoarthritis of the knee and it wasn't going to go away. The only 'cure', a new knee, would be some years off as he was considered too young to get one immediately. (He was probably about five years younger than me, but it's hard to say - pain is ageing.) At least I know that my problem, while it might reoccur in future, is only going to be with me for a few more days this time. He hasn't got that hope. Poor guy.
So he'll still have the walk, the stick and the anguished expression. No doubt to commune with other stick wielders in future. Who knew the rod of mobility could have such power to bond humans together?
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