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.
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.
1 comment:
Brilliant piece of writing! Not only funny but I could feel the terror as you crossed that road.... keep writing please
Post a Comment