Don't Touch My Crutch

I was in WHSmith today, browsing the magazine rack. I knelt down to get a look at the mags on the lower shelf. I reached for TimeOut, and only noticed once I was touching the magazine that I had reached between a man’s leg and one of the crutch’s he was using. Was this rude, to reach between a man’s leg and his crutch? I had gone unnoticed, but for how long?

I began to wonder if he thought of his crutch just as he would a real leg, and it was therefore improper to put my arm between them. Perhaps it was even more sensitive, and there were laws in fact. Laws that only the Crutched knew of, inscribed on a papyrus scroll rolled inside the crutch. Laws of a Divine nature, number 11 on Moses’ Tablet: Thou Shalt Not Reach Between A Man’s Leg And His Crutch. It seemed unlikely, but the thought was uneasing me.

I had put myself in an awkward position by reaching, but now I had frozen, unsure as how best to get out of this situation in the most dignified manner possible. For one mad second, I decided it would be a good idea to pass the magazine to my other hand, but for my other hand to reach, I had to move in closer. I bent my arm to make the pass. Now I was hugging the man’s crutch, which was seeming more and more like an artificial leg. I found myself wondering, had this man become so accustomed to his crutches that they actually felt like his own limbs? Extensions of his body.

I had still managed to go unnoticed. Either that or the man had thought it best not to say anything to someone being intimate with his crutch. Either way, I needed to change my tactics. I decided to pull the magazine back through the cavern between real and fake leg. I started wheedling my arm through, trying to avoid any contact, like those electric wire games that give you a buzz if your hoop touches the metal. Except this time the buzz would at best be social embarrassment, and at worst, prison.

I was almost out of there when I saw the gap beginning to close, the metal crutch drifting towards his thigh, only it looked more like a guillotine. I would rather my arm be cut off than unintentionally stroke this man’s leg. I watched in horror as the gap became smaller, and I knew that a minor collision was becoming unavoidable. There was a point when I could have cut my losses, dropped the magazine and retrieved my hand ninja-stylee, but this chance was already milliseconds passed, which in my adrenal state felt like years. I saw it all unravelling before me with a terrible inevitability, there was no turning back.

At this point, I estimate I had the strength of four retired boxers, and so when I whipped my hand back, my arm swept through his support like leaves. He fell like a skittle, his face ploughing through the rack, each shelf at a time. I tucked the magazine into myself and performed a commando roll for effect, emerging from the chaos into a bull-charge that the security guard was too scared to challenge. I ran all the way home, stopped only by my front door which I knocked off the hinges. I don’t think I’ll be going back there for a while.