HALFLING: A FAREWELL TO LEGS - Part 8

The eighth part about my collapse, surgery and subsequent life in a wheelchair, and the attitude of society towards the disabled - not quite humans, but 'halflings'.

As anyone who’s read much of my writing knows, I’m not really the turn-the-other cheek pacifist type. But I’ve always been keen on saving insects, for some reason. One of my earliest childhood memories is crying at nursery school when a boy killed a bee. In my globetrotting days, I found that carefully scooping up drowning insects and tenderly placing them poolside to dry gave a sense of righteousness to endless booze-fuelled laps of an infinity pool in the 5-star sunshine.

Since My Bit Of Trouble, these feelings of protectiveness towards our insect brethren have totally vanished. When I see a fly now - and there do seem to be more than usual hanging around - I narrow my eyes and make a grab at it: ‘Like the smell of decay, do you, you ambulance-chasing little sod? There’s plenty where you’re going!’ The sight of a silverfish in the tub was enough to send me into full Faye-Dunaway-as-Joan-Crawford mode, filling up the bath and grabbing the Domestos to provide an interesting dip that the dirty little monster wouldn’t forget in a hurry. The way I’m feeling, I wouldn’t even trust myself around a ladybird.