Though I was once oblivious to the importance of wrists, I’ve never been in any doubt as to the importance of legs. Mine are nothing special – not in the Mary Hart league by any stretch – but they’ve always served me well, and I would (quite literally) be half the man I am without them.
I’m thus alarmed that my right leg has malfunctioned. The bloody thing inexplicably seized-up overnight, and now feels like it’s in the jaws of a ravenous bull-terrier, whose testicles are being whipped with a wet dishcloth.
Consequently, movement’s out, but onomatopoeic expressions of pain are in.