Glenn's Diary

Chapter 8

8th August 2005

1963

By the time I reached 9, I was diagnosed with flat feet. It's a hereditary problem from my Mum. I made countless trips to Sheffield Childrens' Hospital; two bus rides that would make our journey an hour each way. The average wait for our appointment, which always ran late, was 4 hours. It was torture. Mum didn't have the common sense, like many people, to arrange the future appointments for the first available 'first appointment', so that there would be less delay time.

I got fitted with in-steps in my shoes. The problem was that as I walked, my feet were bearing down instep first, instead of outer edge first. The tell-tale sign was my shoes which were wearing on the inner edge of the heel and sole, rather than evenly.

The first insteps I had were made of moulded leather. We made some progress with my right foot, but my left foot just flattened the raised in-soles. Higher in-steps were made, but I crushed them too. Finally we moved onto Nickel Silver in-steps; and my feet split the metal arches. I never understood why they didn't make the in-steps solid, so they couldn't be crushed.

Finally, surgery was recommended; but there was a two-year waiting list.

Funny thing about Doctors in those days. People would do anything they said. Now here was a parent; my Mum, who had worse flat feet than me; hadn't approached the Doctor to try and rectify hers; yet was listening to the Doctor telling her that I'd suffer in later years if we didn't make the correction. To this day, Mum has never asked for correction of her own feet. She walks with her ankles tipping in, arches flat to the floor. She's not been able to wear heeled shoes for years because her feet cave in and make her knock-kneed; and yet she has little pain with them; which is not what will happen with me; for I'm about to become cripple as a result of the surgery.

In 1964 at the age of 10; Mum and Dad decided to better themselves by buying their own house in an up and coming affluent village called Dronfield; about 4 miles away South of where we were; and about 8 miles South of Sheffield. Many of the Sheffield football-team players had moved out of Sheffield to Dronfield; so it was becoming 'the place to be'.

Can you imagine my relief when I got to school and there were a lot of kids fatter than me? It was a much more affluent area. I only had about 4 months in the Junior school before Summer break, and then I was due for surgery. I went to Sheffield King Edward's Orthopaedic Hospital in Rivelin Valley, Sheffield. The operation was performed by an eminent surgeon called Sharrard, who followed a procedure that had just been invented by another eminent surgeon called Grice.

Either the procedure was poor, or my surgeon had a bad day; because that was the day I was crippled for the rest of my life. The procedure involved shaving some of my own bone from my left shin (tibula), to use to fuse together some bones in my left ankle.

The idea was to wedge some bone in my ankle joints to correct the movement, leaving my ankle in the vertical position it should be. The down side was that I have no lateral movement with my foot. I can move my foot up and down, but I can't move it side to side. Any movement side to side caused me excruciating pain.

The really interesting effect from this, is that no-one told me I was, or would be, a cripple. So because no-one told me that; it wasn't part of my belief. I knew I had a painful foot joint; but all I ever did was make allowance for it, and work around it.

By the time I was out of hospital, Senior school term had already started, so I had to play catch-up. I was on crutches with a pot on my leg up to the knee, hobbling around school.

School was over a mile-and-a-half away from home on the other side of a steep sided valley. There were no school buses so I had to hobble up hill and down dale twice a day, five days a week for about three months.

When I finally got the pot off, walking became extremely painful; but I was determined I was going to lead a normal 'sporting' life.

Within the year I was chief goal scorer for the football (soccer) team. By age 13 I had the high jump record at 5 foot 10.5". I was only 5 foot 9.5" tall. My right leg would always compensate for the weakness in my left leg, due to my left foot.

Mum and dad never showed any interest in me at school; other than when there was a complaint about my hand-writing. Dad had learnt to write in an Old-English style called 'Copper Plate' when he was younger. So taking a pride in something like that made him angry that I was letting him down by not 'following in his footsteps'. I remember him checking my home work and ripping it up each time until I wrote more neatly. If I didn't, he beat me until I did.

Mum and Dad only ever went to one open evening to meet the teachers, and never went to any of the sports days, which were open to parents; even though I was excelling in sports. I was third in Javelin. Third in long jump. Third or second in all running events except cross country, when my left foot would cave in. I was second best discus thrower. I was the best at shot put and went on to compete at County level. I was the first student in the school at age 13 to compete racing a 14-foot sailing dinghy with a class-mate called Roger Stone. And I captained the school rugby team from age 13 to age 17.

Mum and Dad never saw me sail or saw me at any sports event.

I just had a thought. Maybe you might be thinking that Mum and Dad worked long or unsociable hours; or maybe it was impossible for them to get there. O.K., what you need to know is that Dad left for work at 7.30am and arrived home at 4.45pm, 5 days a week, almost all his life. He was steady. Worked for the GPO (Now British Telecom) for around 37 years. Mum worked locally, part-time in manual work. At one point she was working 5 minutes walk from my school. They had no hobbies, no sports interest, no social or spiritual interest; and no friends; other than the TV which is still on today whilst ever they're awake in the house.

I'd no idea at the time, but this lack of attention from my parents was making me crave it elsewhere. When you lack attention and crave it, you try to get noticed. If you've seen the film Shrek; think about the behaviour of ‘Donkey’: Pick me! Pick me! Look at me! Look at me! I can do that!

This kind of behaviour is seen by others as being 'big-headed'. When you crave attention, and no-one gives it to you, and your behaviour is confident; you'll 'ask' for the attention:

"Did you see that?"

"Let me show you what I can do!"

"I can do better than that. Watch me!"

I didn't know any better. I didn't really know what I was doing. I started to develop a sense of humour. I knew that if I told a joke, and it was funny, people laughed and that gave me the attention. Sadly the humour became sarcasm a lot of the time. I thought it was funny and I'd no idea how much I hurt people. My big-headedness, humour and sarcasm got me into a lot of trouble. I soon learned how to get tough.

This was another way of getting recognition. I became about 4th toughest in our year, to the extent that no-one ever 'picked on me'. That allowed me to bully other kids which gave me another kind of attention and recognition. I wasn't liked; but I was getting the attention. Even still, I was a very lonely child. Unlike many other kids, my parents were never my friends. They were about two generations apart and never attempted to befriend me.

As I approached my teenage years I became very bitter and angry. I'd no idea why at the time. At that age in the 60's you didn't psychoanalyse yourself. You just 'were'.

I'd been dating since the age of 5. Yes; you read it right: 5 years old. I don't recall any year when I didn't have a girl to go out with at some point during the year; albeit sometimes very brief. This was another way of me getting my love and recognition.