Living Dangerously !

   A year or more ago when stepping into a crowded isle in church, I bumped into a man who apologised. Yes! He apologised, and explained that he was a member of the "Wobbling Club." I hadn't heard of it, and didn't admit to the possibility that I might be a member without knowing; and now I am in torment, not knowing who or what to blame when I go walking. Is it the treacherous pavements around these parts, or my walking shoes that are not of the best quality? or could it be that my limbs are not quite as strong as they used to be? “Blame”: because my gait, at times, doesn't seem quite as it should be.

   Well, to try and arrive at the truth, I crossed over the road yesterday, and set off along the footpaths that I believed to be in better condition than those on our side of the road, and all went well, until I fell, shocked! into a ravine. But, I had the presence of mind to keep my composure knowing that I had to climb back out again; and when I did climb out, I looked back in disgust at the disproportionate, dare I say, life threatening drop in the pavement that was supposed to mark the entrance to someone’s house. And I had some additional thoughts.

   Undoubtedly someone in the past thought that replacing flagstones with tarmac was a great idea, but without foreseeing the consequence; or perhaps they did, and didn't care, that as time passed, the utility companies - each in their own time -would come along and dig a hole, and then another, and yet another hole until in the end, we found ourselves walking on the the equivalent of a patchwork quilt. But that's not all: for along came the cable companies who made incisions all the way down the pavement, that sometimes, now that they are patched up - and a bit like me - veer to the right, and sometimes to the left, and almost always at a level above all the other patchwork.

   Now truthfully, I can tell you that I have fond memories of the pavements in Portrush, where I grew up. As the word suggests, they were flagged, and sometimes I enjoyed leaping from where I was to a flag in the distance. And as I raced over them, - to school that is - I know that I developed in my subconscious, a sense of proportion, - for the slabs were not all of equal size, - and precision, from the care with which, and irrespective of their size, they were laid. And I remember the men who came along and taking them up stacked them neatly at the side of the road before digging into the subsoil below. And I remember them putting them back with skill when the work was done. But sadly, in Portrush, for all it's natural beauty, the promenades are scarred with tarmac.

   Well, back home and confiding in Jenny, I told her that I didn't know whether the unsteady gait was my fault, or the fault of the wretched footpaths, but that I didn't want to resort to a walking stick, fearing, that in my 3 mile walk that would slow me down. But as wives do, she had the answer. What I needed, she told me, was a Nordic Walking Stick: so I am investigating. But, back to the outdoors.

   So as to reassure you that all this is not a figment of my imagination, let me tell you that a couple of months ago, someone, (it could even have been a battalion of them,) came along with a pot of white paint and painstakingly put a line of white around each of the areas of broken tarmac. When it first happened I was pleased, but worried, that whatever they did in the way of a repair, would be little more than a sticking plaster applied to a festering sore. But now I am a sceptic, or a cynic, or whatever word you might prefer, as nothing has happened since the white paint went down. Or, perhaps it has, as was intended: that there are fewer claims for compensation for personal injury, from people like me, - who go walking.

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  ©  Cormac E. McCloskey