The Ice Maiden

The enemy of the mobility impaired is not Christmas crowds. Not speeding traffic. Not an out of control Labrador. Not even eight drunken Santas in the Two Monkeys. No, the real enemy is ice. Black ice. Thin ice. Ice on pavements. Ice on roads. Slushy ice. Snow covered ice. Beach ice. Muddy ice.

The route to Scotmid may as well be the death zone above Everest's camp 4. But there are no fluttering prayer flags on the way. No stupas to protect the frail and vulnerable. Just incredibly stupid drivers sliding their cars onto the pavement. And, (I do a double take) a couple of random cross country skiers out for an urban thrill....

There are two options. Face the ice. Or stay at home for several days. The latter is not, of course, an option. For me at least. But rest assured, there will be thousands of people across the country too afraid to go out - as the main roads are gritted and the pavements are not. This is not necessarily the council's fault. The council could not get to every street. But if each householder just did their entrance, the streets would be cleared. And Living Streets wouldn't be making a polite complaint on national radio... But I digress...

I stand at the tenement door to check out the other pedestrians. There aren't any. I step out onto the snow covered ice. My right heel slides away immediately. Amazingly, I don't fall. All that physio is paying off. Another step. And another. More sliding. I hold onto the railings. Which is fine until I have to cross the road. I stare at the other side. Over the abyss. The ice on the road is an inch thick. And sheer. I cross like a crow. Make it. Slide again and grab the big wheely bin. Almost over that time. I am terribly afraid. But it also extremely funny. I am laughing. I am victorious. Because I am managing it. Just as well as everyone else. Because by this time, there are a few others with over bent knees, huddled in their woolly hats, hanging onto anything that will prevent a fall.

I make it to Scotmid. To the hospital. Onto the bus. Into the city. To the cinema. But not to Glasgow. That's a step too far. Walking on snow is natural physiotherapy. I couldn't design that exercise if I tried. Never mind make the gizmo required. But my foot aches. The skin pinkens and swells round my scar. And after two days, I resurrect my stick. Back on the best seat in the bus. Straight to the front of Xmas queues. The crowds open in front of me like the parting of the Red Sea. I am an ice maiden with a stick. The stick is back. Long live the stick.

Colin and the Number 26 Bus

Another day. Another milestone. Its pouring with rain. Rush hour. Waiting for the No. 26. bus . Last person to squeeze on. Downstairs, the bus is full. Deep breath. Decide to climb the stairs. Deep breath. Hope the bus doesn't take off while I'm half way up. Make it safely. Another deep breath. Wonder how I'm going to get down again. Daren't attempt it if the bus is still moving.

Three seats from the front I have a perfect view of the coupe that appears from nowhere on our right and attempts to cut us up. The bus driver hauls on the brakes. Holds down the horn. Emergency stop. Downstairs there are shouts and crashes. More shouting. The bus pulls over. We are four stops from home.

I can hear the driver talking to a man, asking him what's wrong. Then he is calling an ambulance. By now, the entire bus knows that a 52 year old man called Colin has been thrown three feet down the bus, hurt his arm and cracked his head. Upstairs we remain quiet. There are absolutely no complaints. A woman suggests she needs a drink. Someone else agrees. Colin is conscious but quiet. The driver fears that he will be blamed, his knuckles rapped. But it absolutely wasn't his fault. And he is meticulous in his response.

Ten minutes later the ambulance arrives. So does another 26 bus We offload obediently leaving Colin with the ambulance man, and get onto the other bus. Four stops later, I disembark. I have safely navigated the upstairs of a bus. Colin, less fortunate on the lower deck, is on his way to hospital. And the driver of the coupe, unidentified, is presumably relaxing with a drink at home. His ignorance is his bliss. There is, absolutely, no justice.

OPD 6 (orthopedic clinic)

A Tuesday afternoon six weeks after the last operation. Yes, time for another visit to ODP 6. I wonder whether to go. For the first time since my accident I have a day off sick that is not related to the truck, I have a stinking horrible cold. But if I don't go it may be very difficult to get another appointment. I swallow some ibuprofen and stagger out.

In the old days I used to get there on time. And then wait. And wait. And wait. Now I am becoming more cunning. Today I take a bus that might (according to the timetable) get me there on time. Of course it doesn't. As expected. I am a respectable 15 minutes late. No sooner have I sat down, then I'm whisked up to the Green Waiting Room. (The colour of the waiting room is important but that's a story for another time). Another minute and its into the consultant's office.

A two minute conversation, then its off for an x-ray (the radiographer is rather unprofessionally startled by my graft) - and back to the office. He shows me the x-rays. Astonishing. Almost everything has healed. Except for a small gap in the fibula. Which doesn't matter apparently. We discuss future function (this is orthopedic speak for "Please doctor, will I be able to hill walk again?)

He doesn't commit. Notes that I will probably develop arthritis in my ankle (I daren't ask when) and that I should crack on with my physio and come back to see him in a year. A year? A year! And if I need to see him before hand, if I want anything else removed (I daren't ask what), I should just give him a call. I think that he is saying there is still a whole year in which to make more progress. A week may be a long time in politics, but it is a nano second in orthopedics....

The Allotment (and other diversionary tactics)

The task is bigger than Christmas. Bigger even than Africa. But smaller than a 32 tonne truck. And definitely smaller than a year of physio.

I mean, how hard can it be tackling a few brambles, some towering roses and several feral holly trees? When it has rained every weekend for months? And it took two weeks to realise there was actually a shed in there somewhere?

And while the vines grow ever taller, the great allotment conqueror is also ensconced in at least five other hobbies (read diversionary tactics) at the same time. These include, in no particular order of importance: weekly private Spanish lessons: Fisherrow Yacht Club Committee meetings; knitting nights; vociferous reading; twice weekly swimming; and about 5 hours a day of Radio 4. Oh, and of course there's work to do too...

No doubt a psychiatrist would have a bit to say about all this avoidance stuff. Something about replacing two wheels with something more manageable; and providing visible evidence of achievement. This is not far off the truth. And it is worth considerable more examination. Later. I'm far too busy at the moment. Whatever the psycho-babble, its all getting very confusing. And thorny. I haven't managed to knit a solution for the brambles yet - instead razing them to the ground with a flamethrower in a pique of must-seize-control-of my-life garden rages.

The Yacht Club Committee speaks English, not Spanish (much to my disappointment). And the Spanish teacher alas, is not fluent in the art of Day Skipper Theory and parallel rulers. However, it does all keep the scary stuff at bay. At least for the time being. At least until I have to face it head on with the psychologist.

Whether or not the diversionary tactics are good for my long term mental health remains to be seen. Even if not, at least I'll be considerably more learned at the end of it, and I'll also have grown a few onions and mastered the bowline and the half hitch... Which means that, taking the new ironing board into account, my life will indeed be complete. That is, of course once I've learnt the ancient art of flame eating...

Ding Dong the Stick is Dead. Long Live the Stick.

I am free. At last. Free to stagger down to the end of the bus in search of the last seat. Free to stand at bars. Free to carry an umbrella and a bag at the same time. Free to sit in a restaurant without tripping the waiter up. Free from strangers asking what's wrong with me. Free to take the stairs. Free to get through revolving doors without jamming them and me. Free Free!

The stick is gone. Long live the stick. A trusty companion for months, I am semi naked without it. A constant 'something's missing anxiety'. Phantom limb syndrome. Almost limpless, I am now almost normal. Which, irony or ironies, does have its drawbacks.

For while I can walk without a stick, for several blocks even, hills are not my forte. Nor are cobbles. And when you live in a world heritage city, this is a serious disadvantage. There is no iPhone application yet that route plans for these eventualities. Not that I have an iPhone. But I would if such an application existed.

And with the stick, goes the sympathy. And the generosity. Strangers pushing past me now don't know that if I stumble, I'll probably fall. Bus drivers take off before I have got to my seat. And car drivers rev in frustration as I troop slowly over crossings. And the chats I used to have with other people with sticks. (There's a whole stick community out there which you just don't see if you don't have a stick yourself.)

And I am slow. Terribly slow. With funny little short steps to avoid putting too much pressure on my knee. But this will improve. In four weeks I will be back on my bike. My knee will be strong enough to start impact work (that's physio-talk for running). And my two trusty sticks will be returned to St Johns - ready for their next thankful companion.