Limpy IV - The Slow Voyage Home
I thought we were all said and done in the land of limpy, but alas, no. I have become increasingly frustrated with the lack of speed when it comes to hobbling around the place, and I may have, once or twice, put a bit too much pressure on my poor little toe and her busted phalanges. (I don't know why my little toe is female, but there you are. I think it may actually be a male toe, but because I'm camp, I call everything 'she,' regardless).
My doting and rather put-upon boyf did me the most delightful honour and purchased for me a walking stick. A cane! He was going to get a proper one from the chemist, one of those telescoping aluminium jobs, but he knows how much I weigh, and he also knows that nothing but wood can hold me up. (At this point, I am required by camp law to utter 'vicar,' 'matron,' or 'so to speak.')
I love it! He got a cheap $7 stick from one of those shops that sells everything you could never imagine. My mother used to call it 'the junk shop,' because they seemed to sell nothing but junk; she made frequent trips to it nonetheless, and often came out with half of my Christmas presents.
The cane has improved speed no end! I get up to quite a rate of knots burning up and down the corridor at the radio station. Sure, I wasn't that fast before I broke my toe, so my standards are pretty low. The only problem with hobbling around on a cane at work is the fact that I work with a bunch of joke-making wags. This morning, Andy told me I looked like Richard Attenborough in Jurassic Park. Never mind I had just saved Hamish's life with my lend of an asthma puffer!
Okay, I'm using a cane and whingeing about prescription medication. I'm officially an old man.