And another thing about being a writer, especially one with an interest in quirks and
obsessions, sometime you feel that the world is delivering the right kind of ‘character’ to
your door for your delectation and potential exploitation.
Today a new window cleaner came to the house. I opened the back door to be friendly and to say hello, and I noticed he was walking very slowly and gingerly down the garden path.
That didn’t strike me as remarkable in itself but he said, ‘I’m walking slowly because I’ve got a false leg and I don’t want to end up falling down and you finding me on my back in your garden. I’m not worried about the leg. I’m worried about my pride.’
This was so perfect that I didn’t say anything else and now of course I wish I’d asked him all about how he lost the leg, was he in pain, was he able to get about, etc etc. But perhaps that would have spoiled it.
Incidentally I used to date a girl whose father had one leg. He claimed that in his youth he’d been quite a hit with the ladies. I can well believe that.
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