EVER SINCE I became bionic there’s been a constant need to stare at my feet as I walk; I’ve tripped over invisible cigarette packets, skited inexorably down the shiny paving stones of Alloa High Street praying for a wall to bring me to a halt, done an involuntary dressage more than once in the Thistle Centre of Stirling, got four faults and no Victor Ludorum, when my leg fell off on the stairs in Alloa Sheriff Court and knotted myself when my thigh sleeve wrinkled and talked to me, loudly, in company, in short, sharp gasps. Try explaining that one diplomatically. Of course there’s been as many high points as low - I’ve marvelled at minnows in French waters lapping around my painted plastic toes, counted my blessings which number far more than the five feet I currently have, and I’m officially endowed with double spider senses as I’m into leg number 17. I take photos of my two feet on beaches all over Scotland, because I can. I sport a nice little high heel often and I know I’m Rocky running up those steps in Philadelphia when I manage to walk out my front door dressed to kill, wrinkles, bingo wings and all.
There was a year when I wasn’t allowed to drive and my licence became restricted to automatic only; a pure scunner because I loved my manual convertible and knowing I’d never drive it again drove me temporarily insane. But I got a licence and a car which wasn’t a boring safe old Saab with multiple airbags and I knew then, if not before, how lucky I am.