I'm getting there, I'm getting there. A month after my foot accident, I'm finally able to leave the house. I've managed to limp round Sainsbury's, I've had a potter round the garden, and now, finally, I've been able to return to the trains.
The occasion was another of those epoch-defining moments where I met up with another of my trusty readers. This time it was a case of Hello Sailor!, as the person I was meeting was Roy, a regular in the comment section who was currently on leave from his job in the Navy. We met up, along with Robert, and chucked back a few lagers. It was a good way to spend the afternoon, and once again reassured me that my readers are not insane losers. It's strange - when I started writing this blog, my terminal shyness would have stopped me from going anywhere near someone off the net. Now I seem to spend every month befriending another person I've only ever known through the odd e-mail. Who knew? You're nice people!
After that, I staggered back to Moorfields for the true highlight of the afternoon: riding the rails again! (I'd got a lift across to Liverpool). Disappointingly, Merseyrail has managed to carry on without me. There wasn't even a brass band in the ticket hall to welcome me back.
I'm still not completely fixed, as the three-quarter of a mile walk home from the station reminded me: by the time I staggered through my front door I was in something approaching agony. I was also embarrassingly slow on the stair-ramp at Birkenhead Park. Normally I'm nimbly scaling the stairs like a mountain goat on a cliff face: yesterday I was overtaken by a pensioner with a tartan zip-up shopping trolley.