I thought of getting a walking stick, you know. They have
adjustable black ones in a shop in Uttoxeter for £10. I rather liked the look
of them and wondered whether I could get…
Property of Princeton-Plainsboro. Please return.
… printed on the side. It occurred to me that if I held it
close to my hip and wore my shirt outside my jeans, which I often do, I might
get mistaken for the great man and asked for my autograph. Then again, my
admirers might be a group of women, and the ones in the background might start
whispering things like ‘I thought he was a lot taller than that’ and ‘I suppose
he was wearing a wig when he was on the telly’ and ‘hasn’t his beard gone
pale?’ And then I’d get very embarrassed and have to admit that I’m a fraud. So
I think I’ll wait to see whether the hospital has any suggestions regarding the
cause and possible remedy first. Meanwhile, it continues to make me miserable.
And I’m waiting for the day when some denizens of the Shire
spot me at the bottom of the garden, and come over to say:
We haven’t seen you
walking around the lanes lately.
‘No. My bad leg won’t let me.’
What’s wrong with your
leg?
‘I don’t know.’
So how do you know it’s
bad?
‘It hurts when I walk.’
Have you been to the
doctor?
‘Yes.’
And what did he say?
‘He thinks my veins are silted up with tobacco residue and
cholesterol.’
OOH… Sounds nasty. Can
they be un-silted?
‘I’ve no idea. He’s referred me to the vascular surgery
clinic at the hospital, but the waiting list is a long one.’
Oh well, we just
wanted to tell you that we miss you. There’s nothing to laugh at any more.
And then they’ll run away tittering, and their little dogs
will bounce after them with wagging tails because running away with tittering
humans is such fun. And dogs and denizens alike will be confident in the
knowledge that I’m quite unable to chase them waving the walking stick which I
haven’t got yet.
And it really isn’t funny, you know.
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