Have I owned up I’m using a walking stick?
Don’t tell a soul. Black-affronted. Meant to be only a temporary “aid”, it’s now got to the supremely stupid stage that I can barely go a step without it.
Like sucking my thumb as a bairn and smoking as a daftie adult, I’ve become addicted. At least I’m too posh for one of those NHS silvery aluminium efforts. My support is a very classy trekking pole, complete with horn handle, which gives me the look of some athletic craiter fresh off Lochnagar. It was a gift to me from an aunt and uncle for my 60th birthday and retirement – they obviously thought I’d follow in their adventurous footsteps, still hillwalking into their 80s. Nae chunce. Too busy lunching into the four o’clocks.
So I stuck it at the back of a wardrobe for years until, around the start of Covid time, I began getting breathless on my tootles. Doc declared I was too fat (now there was a surprise) so I on a diet and dug oot the pole.
It’s brilliant for taking much of my weight when I’m oot and aboot. Mind you, when I notice my shadow, I cringe at the sight of this decrepit al’ wifie. It now comes with me almost everywhere I go – not that I aye remember. I’m constantly stickless in a supermarket when I leave it leaning at the lemons or propped by the prawns. The other day when we went to the wonderful Brechin Castle, my grandtoots spent much of their time on various treasure hunts to track down where I’d left the ruddy thing.
Trouble is, I’ve started to get all nervie when I don’t have it. Truth be told, I’ve aye been a hiterer. My mum took Little Mo to the GP because every time I ran doon the brae ootside the hoose, I ended up barrelling forward and doon, both knees a bloody mess. She suspected something was badly wrong with my feet. Nah, sez the doc. She’s just clumsy. Spot on.
My knees are as cratered as the surface of the moon
I’ve had various careless tumbles over my decades, leaving my knees – as a beau once so romantically observed – as cratered as the surface of the moon. You’d think my trusty pole would be a superb guarantee against those unpredictable heid-firsts. Except… I don’t use it when I’m at home, where I wear bachled but affa comfie slip-on sandals. For those of a sensitive nature, look away now.
I’m hirplin’ with a vengeance and I need my precious pole more than ever
A couple of times recently – once in the hoose and once in the garden – I’ve stepped on the floppy back of a sandal and keeled backwards. Fortunately without the tiniest injury. However, a week ago today, the bin mannies arrived earlier than I expected, when I’d still another baggie of stuff to chuck.
On red alert when I heard them clattering doon the street, I on with my bachles, grabbed the baggie, opened the front door, tripped over the mat and – like a superb triple-jump Olympian – sailed through the air and landed on two knees and a shin. Even my covering of trousers couldn’t protect my poor skin from the bashing it took.
So now I’m hirplin’ with a vengeance and I need my precious pole more than ever. (Bachlies have been binned.)
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