stick

My back is definitely crocked. I toddle around a bit, do what I need to do, then sit down with a story to write or a book to read. (At this time of year, I'm reading Terry Pratchett's Hogfather again. Can recommend.) Much tells me that now I know what it's like to have a back made of blooming stone. Hamilton Bear has soft squishy stuffing to hold him up, and says it's much more sensible than a tower of bones going all the way from your head to your bottom. He may be right.

I can do most of what I normally do, but very slowly and with care. The first few steps after getting out of a chair are extremely unpredictable, so on Wednesday, when I was really struggling to get about, I bought a stick. I love it.

In a small, friendly town like this people notice if you have a stick. They are very patient with you at market stalls. They wait in their cars while you hirple across the road. (Hirple, BTW, is a Scots word for 'hobble' or 'limp'.) And they sort of melt away as I approach. Whether this is to give the poor limping lady room or to get out of the way of an eccentric biddy who might whack you with her stick, I don't know. But I suggest it's an indication that most people are really kind and considerate at heart.