Gaffa tape guy

I’m feeling mighty sorry for myself. It’s a bitter Melbourne morning, and I’m huddled in a big cardigan and ugg boots, trying to catch the only sliver of sun available this time of day. I’m on the pavement outside my osteopath, waiting miserably for them to open, having woken with a painful spasm in my back.

It’s the worst possible time at work for me to be incapacitated, and I have family coming from all over for the weekend. We are just emerging from a spell of horrible health issues and this feels like the last straw.

As I wait, I see an ancient man on the other side of the road. He is hunched over his walking frame, inching – literally – along the road. I watch him, to take my mind off the pain. He’s quite a sight. His clothes are old and shabby. With his layers of shapeless jumpers and jackets, I can’t see the top of his pants, but I wouldn’t mind betting they are held up by a piece of twine. There are a succession of messy bags and bundles dangling from his walker, lurching and swinging as he stumbles along.

Most striking of all, he is wearing a bike helmet (is he expecting to fall over, does he trip readily, is he an epileptic?) which is covered entirely by silver gaffa tape. His shoes are big and bulbous, and they too are gaffa taped to within an inch of their lives.

I’m intrigued. He is so bent over that I doubt he is aware of my steady regard. He walks maybe ten metres, and then he stops for a rest, perching slowly and painfully on the little seat on his zimmer frame. After a minute or two, on he goes before stopping for another breather. I watch him till he is out of sight; it takes a while.

I feel as though I am waiting for ever, but really it’s only 30 minutes, because I misread the osteo opening time. They open up, I stagger in, I am seen to, I head gingerly to work, and over the next couple of days, my pain eases and life returns to normal. Everything that has to, gets done.

I am humbled by the gaffa tape man. His doggedness inspires me. It puts me in mind of the saying ascribed to Samuel Beckett: ‘I can’t go on, I’ll go on’. I watch him and suddenly, I don’t feel quite so sorry for myself.

Published in The Melbourne Age Tuesday 22 August