I spent yesterday practising walking without a limp. I reckon if I move slowly enough I can make it look natural. Well, natural in a slow way. But I can’t face the prospect of my pupils knowing that I fell off a wall, and I’m not imaginative enough to come up with a lie. Actually, that’s not true – I can think of plenty; but I know that, no matter how well prepared I was, when someone asked what was wrong with my leg I would think, “I was out riding a bike when suddenly a horse and cart went past, clearly out of control. There was a mother and baby on the cart and they were terrified. Well I had to do something, didn’t I? So I raced as hard as I could, caught up with them and jumped from my bike to the cart. With quick nod of reassurance to the frightened woman I grabbed the reins and tried to get the horse under control – but it was no good. I pulled on the brakes of the cart – but they were broken. The only way to stop them was to climb down the back of the cart and use myself as the brake. So I forced my foot down onto the road and pushed it until the cart came to a halt. The mother and child were saved – at the expense of my foot.”
I would think that – but when I would open my mouth it would come out as, “…um, I fell off a wall.”
The only way to avoid the inevitable ridicule was to hide the fact that I was in pain. And the only way to do that was to casually saunter in to school, perhaps humming, make my way to the classroom and spend the rest of the day in my chair.
It started so well. I got out of my car slowly and made my way, slowly, to the main entrance (saying a slow hello to the classroom assistants.) I walked along a corridor slowly, before being joined by Bob – a pupil from one of my previous schools who comes here a few times a week for some of his subjects. We talked of the holidays as we walked. He didn’t seem to notice the snails pace, and didn’t look down once. I asked him what subjects he was joining us for today, he asked me how long I thought I’d be in this school, I asked him what he was studying today, he wished me a pleasant day as we arrived at my door. He walked off. I’d made it. I took one more look round as he walked off – paused – turned – and said “oh, and what did you do to your foot sir?”
What is it about this time of year?
I spent yesterday practising walking without a limp. I reckon if I move slowly enough I can make it look natural. Well, natural in a slow way. But I can’t face the prospect of my pupils knowing that I fell off a wall, and I’m not imaginative enough to come up with a lie. Actually, that’s not true – I can think of plenty; but I know that, no matter how well prepared I was, when someone asked what was wrong with my leg I would think, “I was out riding a bike when suddenly a horse and cart went past, clearly out of control. There was a mother and baby on the cart and they were terrified. Well I had to do something, didn’t I? So I raced as hard as I could, caught up with them and jumped from my bike to the cart. With quick nod of reassurance to the frightened woman I grabbed the reins and tried to get the horse under control – but it was no good. I pulled on the brakes of the cart – but they were broken. The only way to stop them was to climb down the back of the cart and use myself as the brake. So I forced my foot down onto the road and pushed it until the cart came to a halt. The mother and child were saved – at the expense of my foot.”
