Ah, the festive season – a time of joy, merriment, and for me, a period of clumsy, ungainly hobbling, reminiscent of a newborn foal with its legs tied together. It all came flooding back the moment my ankle twinged, bringing with it memories of the weeks I spent awkwardly navigating life with a great, cumbersome plaster cast encasing my lower leg like an ancient knight’s greave – except distinctly less noble and infinitely more inconvenient.
Winter had sunk its teeth into the landscape, turning pavements treacherous with an icy glaze, and there I was, teetering about, the very picture of inelegance. Naturally, I did what any self-respecting invalid did – I pulled an oversized sock over the cast in a vain attempt to keep my exposed toes from turning blue. But as any unfortunate soul with a leg in plaster will tell you, socks are about as much use as a chocolate teapot when it comes to keeping your foot dry in the depths of winter.
And so, back to school I went after the Christmas break, my encased foot dragging behind me like an unwelcome guest. There was no reprieve for me, no special treatment – just the daily struggle of keeping my foot warm and dry in a world that seemed determined to conspire against me.
Enter my father, ever the problem-solver, with a stroke of genius that was, in equal measure, practical and utterly humiliating. His grand solution? A bread bag. Yes, you heard that right. A bread bag.
Now, my mother had a fondness for Nimble bread – remember that? “She flies like a bird in the sky…” – but unfortunately, those flimsy little bags were about as sturdy as a wet tissue and woefully inadequate for the task. No, what was needed was something with a bit of grit, a bit of backbone – a proper, no-nonsense Mother’s Pride bread bag.
And so, every morning before school, my foot was unceremoniously encased in a red-and-white plastic shroud, crinkly and waxy, not unlike a scrap of greaseproof paper hastily repurposed for battle. The irony wasn’t lost on me – while I adored the monochrome elegance of black and white, I seemed destined to be shackled by the garish red and white, my foot resembling some tragic, misshapen sandwich.
But the ritual didn’t stop there. Anticipating inevitable wear and tear, I stuffed a spare bread bag into my pocket, because, as any seasoned bread-bag wearer will tell you, disaster lurks around every corner. A rogue puddle, a misplaced step, a sharp edge, and boom – you’re left hobbling around like a mariner with a tattered sail.
Suffice it to say, we went through a lot of bread in our house.
Wording 