How did you do it? The question everyone who has broken an extremity dreads. It gets to the point where recording the story of how the injury occured and playing it on request seems reasonable. A simple 30 second audio file, permitting the sufferer to not have to suffer at least that question anymore. Don't break your leg. Forget all the glamorous images of exotic trips to hospitals. It's really not worth it. I fractured my tibia playing my last ever competitive game of football. I went up for an aerial challenge (I jumped) and came down awkwardly and it was all over. Within a few hours I was on a hospital bed and looking at the next five weeks in a plaster cast. Fortunately my job only requires my mind and not my legs, unlike the many cab drivers I've had conversations with over the past month or so. Each ride with Londons finest reminded me of the ease with which my work in television has continued unabated with one leg. To be fair, you feel pretty much the same trying to come up with BBC3 show names when missing a limb. Clearly its not so easy to drive a cab with a broken leg, as each driver who took me about in the last few weeks made sure to remind me. There's something horrifically humbling about being on crutches. For a moderately fit and well 30 something male, to be consistently asked if I'm ok when doing simple activities, such as getting into cars, doesn't bolster ones self esteem in any way. So many of lifes little chores become impossible. Carrying a glass of any liquid from room to room cannot be done without some kind of lid system. Washing becomes a genuine balancing act on the edge of your bath. Putting the sock on the end of your broken leg to hide your dirty toes from public view is a macabre cabaret of pain. Then there's food shopping. I don't have enough mouths to feed to make an Ocado delivery worthwhile. Your appetite is regularly affected by the painkillers too so it's not really an option. Shopping is a total shambles. I had to attach a carrier bag to one of my crutches and clunk around the store filling it up like a very slow contestant on Supermarket Sweep. I was reguarly watched by security guards who thought I was some kind of remarkably unskilled disabled shoplifter. I did accidentally steal some yoghurt raisins from The Co-Operative the other week, but I've since gone back and paid for them. But probably the biggest negative of the "crutch life" is the genuine exhaustion you feel from having to carry yourself around on your arms. Shoulders, arms and particuarly wrists are strained to just about breaking point. Which is the last thing I need. Even the slightly bigger arm guns at the end of it don't make it worthwhile. This pain leads to a conscious decision to move about as little as life permits, and a lethargic feeling that helps to re-emphasise the general pain. The endless banter with the world who knew you on two legs is also a sort of pain, with the name Hopalong being offered up to you in frequent jest. The name comes from a fictional cowboy character Hopalong Cassidy, who was portrayed by numerous Hollywood actors in the early 20th century, with an appropriate limp to match his name. On a daily basis, a variety of members of my life's assemble cast, who I bear no real ill will, would take it upon themsleves to dub me the modern embodiment of this stumbling famous hero. As it was barked at me again and again, the amusement this gave a wide mix of people knew no end. It was as though it was a stroke of original comic genius the world had not known before. In reality it's a bit of a generic unfunny comment of pretty pointless proportions. For future reference, the person on crutches that you say "Hi Hopalong" to probably doesn't need to be reminded that they look really ridiculous. The sweat pouring down their face as they try to go to the local shop to buy a tin of beans is all the reminder they will ever need. But life as a temporary one legged person has given me the opportunity to specifically praise the general London public, a rare occurence in this day and age where the idea of commmunity is so totally eroded. During my five weeks on crutches, I travelled across London using two different trains, four days a week. Every day I would get myself down to the platform and hop onto a busy train packed full of commuters. Having hobbled down to the station from my home, I would always be dripping with sweat and feeling the aforementioned arm agony. Without fail every day someone would get up to let me sit down. Men and women of all backgrounds appreciated the impossibility of someone with crutches keeping their one remaining foot steady on a moving train. Real empathy across a range of people from North to South London in a community of 8 million. I would sit there exhausted but thankful for their understanding. It's a good reminder that even in the competitive centre of the universe that is London, people are able to stay aware of the weaknesses of those around them, and help to make them stronger. Thousands of commuters were thoughtful enough to step over my leg, as I sat unable to bend it in my horribly heavy cast. Apart from one bloke in Whitechapel who seemed unable to fathom why my leg was in the way of him and his suitcase. After a short discussion about the limitations of bending my leg and how this had inconvenienced him, he picked up his suitcase and carried on along the train. I decided to bite my tongue and not let him know that myself and the rest of the carriage thought his head resembled that of a penis. Still that was just one man in literally thousands of London commuters who made my life easier and therefore better. I'm pretty much back on two legs now, with no crutches just a bit of a hobble, which probably won't be permanent. If it is, feel free to call me Hopalong, even if it leads to me shooting you. Just before I got rid of the crutches, I went to a wedding of 115 guests. I think I told at least 100 of those guests how i did it. How did I do it? With the support of strangers as well as a tiny handful of those closest to me. Thanks to all of them. Hopalong HowCo, signing off.