My mode of locomotion at present would probably best be described as crawling, quite certain that at any moment the pains of the last two days will return in all their torturous forms. I tend to expound feelings, emotions, colorfully, a limp becomes a terribly debilitating gimp, a mild rash some frightening eastern irritation liable to be the foundation of all kinds of unpleasantries. Some might suggest such exaggeration is uncalled for, unnecessary, the best course by far being to soldier on regardless, head high and backbone straight as can be imagined. The stiff upper lip was my heritage.
In my youth I experienced the terrible privations of those brave souls who suffered the unequaled mayhem of the first great war. A moment in time when the ability to repair flesh and bone outreached any necessity or good sense to do so. Those fine boys were stoic victims, became the test cases for the leaps and bounds that have since manifested. I have no business even slightly echoing their bravery, pugnaciousness, and so I whine in honest acknowledgement at their fortitude