I hobble to the Village Shop!!!

Apparently, calf muscles heal quite quickly. But that should not stop everybody from being sympathetic.

Although I still have to use Big A's crutches to go any distance, by sort of extending my left leg and placing it down slightly in front and slightly to the side of me, without bending it, I am able to sidle round the house. I look a bit like a crab. Or John Cleese auditioning for the biopic of Albert Steptoe, practising the scene where he's gingerly waddling to the bathroom having just shat himself.

The lady in the Village Shop looks at me strangely. Perhaps she has read about my Post Office campaign in the Independent on Sunday. (Note for overseas readers - this was a big boost to its influence and scope, as the IoS is the twenty-second most read national newspaper in the UK.)

I buy my newspaper and hobble to the Post Office. This is a bit out of my way and takes me ages. The bruising on my hands is sore and aching as I edge up the path and duck my head as I walk through the doorway.

The Post Office lady informs me that I am one day early to be able to renew my car tax.

The ingratitude!!!