My leg is falling off.
Slowly, it’s a very drawn out process. If I was a betting man then I’d wager that as I stroll down the High Street tonight I won’t get home and think “Where’s that leg gone?” and have to follow a bloody trail back past Lidl and the myriad betting shops searching for a missing limb. There’s a possibility that it will never fall off of it’s own accord and somebody will have to take a hacksaw to it and leave me with a stump. I shall forever after go to fancy dress parties as a pirate. I may fashion different prostheses to suit my needs. I shall have a disco leg with LED lights up the side and I shall have a swimming leg with extraordinarily wide feet. The possibilities are endless.
Of course it isn’t a foregone conclusion that my leg will fall off. There is a good chance that it won’t. If one imagines one’s body as road map then there is a serious accident blocking the route down to my southern extremities. The arterial highways agency have had one go at clearing the route but it was a bit of a failure. They may have another go one day or they may decide that it would be better to build an alternative route using synthetic materials. A trunk road in my trunk perhaps.
The question is, who can I blame for this? I need a scapegoat. It can’t all be my fault…
The daily prompt asks us what would we do if we could turn back the hands of time. I’ve been thinking about this whilst annoying colleagues by singing R Kelly songs (I know it was originally Tyrone Davis, I’m not that old though) and decided that I would chose to never meet Ellen Cole. That would do me just fine.
Ellen introduced me to nicotine. Roll-ups to be precise. She could roll a cigarette one handed with her eyes closed. Probably on one leg whilst balancing a pile of books on her head. It was the most elegant sight to behold. How could I not participate in such a beautifully crafted thing. I came quite late to the world of smoking but took to it with gusto. Soon I too could make a smoke that didn’t look carrot shaped and I could strike a match on my fingernail. How cool is that.
I eventually stopped when the boy was born. It was easy, both adults in the house at the time smoked and a quick discussion led to an instant cessation. I chose grapes as my nicotine substitute and consumed half of the Sauvignon Blanc supply in the first month or so but it worked and I was free of the demon. I remember after one overly fractious row just prior to me leaving I went to the local shop and purchased 10 Benson and Hedges. The hit after 11 years without was instant and I was straight back in there.
The first time I fell over was on the golf course. Bag on my back and walking up a hill. I knew that my leg had been behaving in a curious manner but wasn’t expecting to keel over and find myself doing a passable impression of a dying fly. The doc found it hard to believe I was suffering from intermittent claudication. That only happens in old men! Old men and me and probably another million smokers around the world. A blocked artery means that the oxygen delivery to the muscles in my leg is not up to scratch and so when the muscles get more active and need more fuel they can’t get it snd go on strike. From then on I limp (and sometimes topple). Rest for a while and everything goes back to normal. How weird.
The medical equivalent of a dynorod team have been in and shoved the medical equivalent of a pipe cleaner through the artery but it seems to have met with limited success and so the build up continues. One benefit of course is that I am really very good at walking in circles (as long as I only go anticlockwise). This takes no effort whatsoever.
So there you go. I am a walking example of why people should not smoke. Without some serious intervention at some stage I can look forward to weeping and festering ulcers on my leg, stinking gangrene, my toes turning black and dropping off and the rest of my life in a wheel chair.
Please feel free to use this to remind your children why smoking isn’t clever.