Put the crutch nearby, if needed, but using the cane now. A crutch feels much more manly and I can pretend it was an athletic injury, swaggering and hobbling, but a cane is certainly more dignified. I often forget it entirely, though, and wander about the pad and even about the deck canelessly till I teeter (drunks totter, I think, and the more advanced geezers, and Audrey). It’s been days since I last fell off the crutch like an idiot. The bruise on my forehead has turned a gentle greenish yellow and is fading. The ankle sometimes crunches deliciously, like someone nearby eating potato chips, but it’s merely a myriad ankle bones on a myriad ankle bones, as the ligaments (or whatever they are) are not quite up to par yet. But still, I do chores and carry things and push this and pull that and almost feel less a gimp. Not that I could do much anyway, as there’s a plague about, and I’m starting to feel like Vincent Price in The Masque of the Red Death, but much nicer.