Your bunions are not my bunions

When I was pregnant, strangers used to pat me on my swollen stomach pretty routinely - in the supermarket, on the bus, on the street. Sometimes they would ask for permission but more often they'd just go for it. Read any pregnancy manual to find that this is a common experience. This socially authorised feeling up session would be followed, nearly every time, with unsolicited parenting advice. When I had my first child and was out and about with him strapped in a baby carrier across my chest, once again I would be stopped, the baby's feet would be pulled about and yes, I would be lectured to, unasked. Honestly? It was bloody irritating. But hey, the kids grew up, stopped being cute, and I was consigned back to commuter oblivion. Halleluyah. I hobbled up the road and on to the bus to do some shopping today, and discovered that it isn't only cute kids or endearing bumps that induce strangers to step into your discomfort zone. Crutches. They bring out reminiscences from others, unsolicited of course, which rest firmly in a box labelled Too Much Information. Let's skip the patronising What Have You Done To Yourself Then, through the oh so predictable Was It Skiing, through to the story of their feet. Or their husband's feet. I was in the Gap when a woman tapped me on the shoulder and told me about her husband's torn Achilles tendon. In the supermarket queue a woman puts a supportive arm on my elbow and says "I'm having my bunions done on Friday". Um, that's nice, I say lamely, my eyes telegraphing: do you really think the fact that my left leg is trapped in a surgical boot means I now take a forensic interest in the feet of every Londoner? In total I am accosted by 5 people in the course of my shopping trip. Funniest in these encounters was that each of the five was oblivious to the fact that I was struggling to carry the various food bits I'd gone shopping for. Me, I think I would have taken my bags of sugar off me and THEN told my life story, kind of like payment for services rendered. Home, and into the haven of my kitchen. Nobody there to lecture me on how many years it will be before I'm fully functional again, nobody to dictate my rehabilitation, or share their hammer toe experiences. And just as well, because in the kitchen I'm a whirling dervish. Crutches cast aside, I kneel my booted foot on a chair, turn my music up loud, and Get Baking. It's flour less cooking week, but my kids and I rise to the challenge. New Order on the radio brings out the energy and in an hour we've made chocolate covered coconut pyramids, raspberry Eton Mess, more weird looking rolls, and fried halibut goujons. Aaaah. A very productive and satisfying escape from my freak show outing.