A year on from the second amputation and I feel about my prosthetic leg what I imagine I might feel about settling for a new partner after the death of a much-loved husband.  Every morning I wake up and, for a moment, I forget that it’s gone for good and that nothing will ever be quite as straightforward or quite as much fun. Sometimes I wonder why I’m bothering with a replacement, but it’s nice enough; it gets me out of the house.  If nothing else, it’s something to get me to the cinema or accompany me as I struggle through the woods with the dog.  It’s not really my type – not what I would have gone for under normal circumstances but, at my age and in my condition, it’s probably as good as I’ll get and I don’t want to offend the people who introduced us and who clearly think it’s quite a catch.  But I know that somewhere, tantalisingly way out of my league, is something unfeasibly alluring, smart and stylish which could whisk me away from a life of timidity and apprehension, take me striding out confidently into the future. But it’d come at an incredible cost and I wonder just how much it’s worth it.