LEARNING TO WALK

At the age of 18, I learnt to walk again. It is a strange thing to have to do for a second time. Of course I had mastered it once when I was a toddler, but then the whole thing was automatic. The second time around was a different proposition.

The first part of the process was to be given an artificial leg. Limb fitters look like a cross between a doctor and a janitor. They wear white coats, but instead of stethoscopes and thermometers, they carry wrenches, screwdrivers and Allen keys.

I remember the limb fitter walking in my direction, my new leg swinging in his hand.

‘Here is your pylon,’ he said in a matter-of-fact way.

My first thought was: ‘I wish he would call it a leg.’ After all, it looked a bit like a leg, with a plastic foot at one end and a socket and strap at the other. ‘Pylon’ sounds mechanical. ‘Leg’ sounds human. I wanted to feel human.