Shock news: my feet don’t work properly

Several months on from Robo-Boot 2: The Revenge, I managed to inveigle myself an appointment at a biomechanics clinic to see if they can work out what’s going on, and whether I’m doomed to be stuck in a fracture cycle for the rest of my life (or until the bone in question crumbles into dust, whichever comes sooner). The good news is: yes, there’s something they can do! The bad news is: the reason they can do something is because it turns out I am, to use official medical lingo, “kind of fucked”.

Only “kind of fucked”, note. But still, entirely “kind of fucked” from the knees down. Built wrong. Wonky genes. Shoddy bone structure. To be honest, this I already knew, but today I got extra information to add to the pile of “slightly fucked” I was already aware of, and it all adds up to “kind of fucked” and a big welcome mat to regular stress fractures just by walking the hell around.

But not – tada! – if I wear my new insoles. I already have insoles – have had for 11 years – but they were to correct my “quite fucked” knees; when I was 21 nobody was even considering the feet. They’ve given me the utterly brilliant insoles in the picture as a test for a few months. And I’m being sincere when I say they’re brilliant. They are DIY, stick-it-together-with-glue-and-plastic, plucky-British-underdog-spirit insoles. The podiatrist took a bog-standard pair of insoles, cleared off for 10 minutes and came back with these, stuff stuck onto the back of one, bits hacked off the corners and other stuff glued over the top. How can you not love them? If they work (i.e., if they don’t make other bits of my body start threatening to drop off) they’ll make me some proper ones. But I shall miss my Blue Peter insoles.

I shall not miss my “kind of fucked” legs.

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