Of course he wasn't really a prince. Nor was he grey. Not in the literal sense at least. And I doubt he had read Machiavelli (or Watkins-Pitchford for that matter), although you never know... He shares a name with a prince though. Actually, not one name but two names. Two names with two princes. How cool is that?
So to protect his identity we will call him the prince for now. Well, The Prince. Capital letters are good. Provide some gravitas. For this is an important, if very short, story.
I first set eyes on The Prince on the 10th of January. And last set eyes on him on the 21st of March. Neither of these dates are important historically. Which is a shame. Because they could have added a certain chutzpah, a cheeky reference for the clever reader to sigh "ah yes... the irony..."
There was still snow on the 10th of January. I remember this because I had to get my stick back out. Walking was harder then. There was no snow on the 21st of March. There were blackbirds though. And starlings on the skylight. And people eating ice creams on Cramond beach. The Prince and I ate ice creams too. With flakes. Even though there was no sun.
The Prince was around, although not always present, for some major milestones. He did witness the first frock outing in 15 months. Frocks, you may remember, are out when you have a thigh on your shin. This is both aesthetic (looks horrid) and functional (can't get orthotics into the boots that on a good day will fit over the thigh on a shin). So successfully wearing a frock involves a painful foot (because no orthotics) - both for the outing (in this instance a burlesque night) and the following day.
The Prince was not present for the visit to the defence's orthopedic consultant. This visit was, in a word, grim. Its one thing spending time with medical professionals when they are there to treat you. Its quite another when its for the defence to use in the forthcoming court case.
The Prince was present for the viewing of the trashed Moulton. This was kind of him. Maybe. Its not exactly a fun day out to look at scrap metal with a basket case in the passenger seat of your car. Although taking a picture of it with his iPhone was mildly odd...
The Prince was also present for 'the dancin'. This took place in the local community centre. Shooglenifty on stage giving it laldy while an ankle/foot that once had to be coaxed to move a few millimetres found itself bouncing around with its healthier partner in (almost) perfect rhythm. The Prince won the raffle that night (a very dodgy bottle of whisky which remains to be drunk).
The Prince saw the thigh on a shin, but never commented on it. Some people are quiet about these things (the quietness, it turned out, was verging on horror). The Prince was big on body aesthetics. As many princes are.....
The Prince wasn't present for the first trip up Seafield Road on the pavement to that junction. He was on a train to Glasgow to look at a new bike. Nor did The Prince witness the first ride up Seafield Road itself. He was present though, for the ride to Cramond. A patient companion. And this was important. Because it was long. It was (mostly) fun. And it came a few minutes after the Seafield Road trip.
The Prince did witness the immediacy of the post Cramond ride. And this was very important. The speechless exhaustion, the buggered knee, the savaged foot, and the turmoil of joy and fear and victory and resolution and frustration and happiness and sadness and weariness and a whole load of other things that happen inside your head that you can't articulate when you've been run over by a truck and you've finally sort of got back on the road and then you sit down and you just want to lay your head down and weep or laugh but you don't even know any more and there is nothing left to say....
This was too much for The Prince. Or not enough. Or something else. Or nothing. Or everything. The Prince leaves the narrative. With both his princely names. And that is the end of the story. At least for The Prince. It is not a sad story. People come and go. And so do princes. So do thighs on shins. And this thigh on a shin has eight days left before it goes under the knife. And a new chapter begins.
So to protect his identity we will call him the prince for now. Well, The Prince. Capital letters are good. Provide some gravitas. For this is an important, if very short, story.
I first set eyes on The Prince on the 10th of January. And last set eyes on him on the 21st of March. Neither of these dates are important historically. Which is a shame. Because they could have added a certain chutzpah, a cheeky reference for the clever reader to sigh "ah yes... the irony..."
There was still snow on the 10th of January. I remember this because I had to get my stick back out. Walking was harder then. There was no snow on the 21st of March. There were blackbirds though. And starlings on the skylight. And people eating ice creams on Cramond beach. The Prince and I ate ice creams too. With flakes. Even though there was no sun.
The Prince was around, although not always present, for some major milestones. He did witness the first frock outing in 15 months. Frocks, you may remember, are out when you have a thigh on your shin. This is both aesthetic (looks horrid) and functional (can't get orthotics into the boots that on a good day will fit over the thigh on a shin). So successfully wearing a frock involves a painful foot (because no orthotics) - both for the outing (in this instance a burlesque night) and the following day.
The Prince was not present for the visit to the defence's orthopedic consultant. This visit was, in a word, grim. Its one thing spending time with medical professionals when they are there to treat you. Its quite another when its for the defence to use in the forthcoming court case.
The Prince was present for the viewing of the trashed Moulton. This was kind of him. Maybe. Its not exactly a fun day out to look at scrap metal with a basket case in the passenger seat of your car. Although taking a picture of it with his iPhone was mildly odd...
The Prince was also present for 'the dancin'. This took place in the local community centre. Shooglenifty on stage giving it laldy while an ankle/foot that once had to be coaxed to move a few millimetres found itself bouncing around with its healthier partner in (almost) perfect rhythm. The Prince won the raffle that night (a very dodgy bottle of whisky which remains to be drunk).
The Prince saw the thigh on a shin, but never commented on it. Some people are quiet about these things (the quietness, it turned out, was verging on horror). The Prince was big on body aesthetics. As many princes are.....
The Prince wasn't present for the first trip up Seafield Road on the pavement to that junction. He was on a train to Glasgow to look at a new bike. Nor did The Prince witness the first ride up Seafield Road itself. He was present though, for the ride to Cramond. A patient companion. And this was important. Because it was long. It was (mostly) fun. And it came a few minutes after the Seafield Road trip.
The Prince did witness the immediacy of the post Cramond ride. And this was very important. The speechless exhaustion, the buggered knee, the savaged foot, and the turmoil of joy and fear and victory and resolution and frustration and happiness and sadness and weariness and a whole load of other things that happen inside your head that you can't articulate when you've been run over by a truck and you've finally sort of got back on the road and then you sit down and you just want to lay your head down and weep or laugh but you don't even know any more and there is nothing left to say....
This was too much for The Prince. Or not enough. Or something else. Or nothing. Or everything. The Prince leaves the narrative. With both his princely names. And that is the end of the story. At least for The Prince. It is not a sad story. People come and go. And so do princes. So do thighs on shins. And this thigh on a shin has eight days left before it goes under the knife. And a new chapter begins.
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