My name is Cane, White Cane
Not bad to begin with: one line, one lie.
What is true is that I use a white cane. Not always: I get by quite well without it at home. But in new places, or badly lit ones, or with many people, or with things that shift, I get along much better with it. And of course, in a city like Madrid, that means almost every time I go out of my home.
The cane and me are together for six years now, more or less. I used to change its tip once a year, but nowadays my driving style is much gentler; so, a tip may last three years without any problem.
Poor old chap has been badly bent twice or thrice: when it joins battle with a resolute but absent-minded pedestrian's legs, it usually loses. Except for one time, when it took revenge from a tourist whose eyes were admiring King Charles III's horse as her legs carried her towards a different direction. Poor woman: as we helped ourselves lift each other up, she was swearing in Aramaic with one side of her mouth and was apologizing with the other side.
[Translated from "Me presento"]
