Well, I do have a fair idea really, given that Armidale has a population of about 25,000 or so and I've been here over 35 years. The mathematics of probability on that count combined with the fact that I've been heavily involved with more facets of life here than the Hope Diamond has cut into its surface will readily explain this.
We'd barely left the house and were about to cross the street when we saw a car approaching, about 100 metres away. At my velocity that's probably equivalent to about 10 metres in your case.
It was the only car within sight, so we crossed to the middle of the street as the car approached, waiting for it to go by so that we could complete the three metre trek to the other side of the roadway.
The car slowed to a crawl as it approached us.
'What the hell?' I said to Tracey, 'why doesn't he just go on? Is he wanting us to cross in front of him?'
He didn't. Instead, the car drew level with us and stopped as the window rolled down. He must want directions, I thought, remembering vividly our experience giving directions about a fortnight before.
There was a face at the window I dimly recognised as one from a distant past; twenty years or so at least.
'Hello,' he said, as if we meet like this every day. 'I thought it was you. I live in the flats about four doors down from your house. I've been there since 1984.'
'Really? I thought you were working in Queensland.'
'On and off.'
Amazingly, and I want this recorded for posterity, I remembered his name, and introduced him to Tracey. She was standing near enough to the rear of the vehicle to inhale the exhaust gases emitted by his car's idling motor, so wasn't too keen on an extended conversation. We were on our walk, after all. Sadly, no car was coming up behind to assist in this process of moving him on.
Don't get me wrong now; it was nice to be able to say hello after all that time, and he's a good chap who wishes me nothing more than the best.
'I hear you're in a bad way,' he grinned breezily.
'I've been better.'
'So what do you do?'
I study advanced calculus. I ride racehorses and win buckjumping competitions in Gunnedah, cut down virgin forests with a very large chainsaw, teach street fighting and mountaineering, and practise tantric yoga when it's raining. I am guru to a flock of animists.
No, that's what I would have said if I had my brain in gear for proto-witticism, not focused on putting one foot after the other.
'I read and write a bit. And I walk. Matter of fact, we better keep moving on.'
'OK. Good to see you. We might meet again!'
He revved the engine and was gone.
In a bad way. No-one had put it quite like that to me before, not that I minded. It's not inaccurate. He'd been in Queensland long enough to be blunt about such things.
We set off.
From the point of view of walking, the early part of the walk is comparatively easy.
What people with motor-neurone disease, brain injury or stroke recovery will understand, as well as those whose brain motor centre doesn't work properly because of interference by a brain tumour, is that something as simple as walking - which we all take for granted till we can't do it - has to become a conscious process.
That means you have to think about each part of the operation as you do it.
As I walk up the hill, the right foot might drag once or twice. I adjust.
More angle in the knee.
Then, as the muscles tire, more thought has to go into other joints.
Now, adjust the direction and height of ankle movement.
Now the ball of the foot. Push harder with the toes and the foot muscles. And bend the knee in the middle of the step. Not quite that much.
All these actions aren't simultaneous. They're microseconds apart, and need thinking about - in the right order!
Each step. Always each and every step. Lose concentration and the limp is pronounced. Or the foot drags.
Arm movement. You wouldn't imagine it would matter, but without thinking about it as well, it can lose synchronicity with the legs, with implications for balance. Without it, I may veer to the left or right.
I watch for humps and bumps in the road. Half a centimetre vertically makes a difference. Don't allow for it, and we're back to dragging the foot or doing the drunk impression.
We're at the top of the hill and the path is horizontal. All the angles for the foot now change, just enough to feel unsteady after the climb. Adjust. Focus.
Now we're going downhill. In some ways, this is harder than going up, especially as the hill gets slightly steeper. All the muscular and tendon relationships change. I feel unsteady.
At the kerb to cross the street, I take Tracey's arm.
This is very steadying, but it also fosters dependence. It gives me a false sense of balance. As soon as we get to the other side, I let go of her arm.
She walks just slightly ahead, always on the left. She knows that if she's on the other side, if I trip and start to fall, my right arm won't respond fast enough to catch hers, and doesn't have the strength to help save a fall.
Don't think for a moment of walking on the grass. It has more traps than you can imagine.
As the walk comes to the last half, there's a new element aimed at defeating me. The muscles down the right side of my torso start to tire.
The effect of that is similar to aiming a large heater at the right side of a snowman. I begin to list badly to starboard. I have to think about forcing my body straight, as there's really nothing physically weaker about the side; mainly the problem gets to be the slowing of or interference to the signals from the brain.
Now, in order to maintain balance unassisted, I have to think about staying upright continuously, as well as my arm movement, the hip, the knee angle and direction, ankle lift and strength, to push off the toes; and the spot where the foot will land.
Little wonder that when we reach home, I can barely lift the leg to plough through the thick carpet of kikuyu lawn, and make it up the stairs. Just three of them. Standing still at the door is quite unsteadying. I'm glad to sit down. Tracey brings me a glass of water.
That's today's walk. Tomorrow's may be easier or it may not. Each day is unpredictable that way.
One thing's for sure. If I have a seizure before the next walk, it will be back to the drawing board for the mechanics of walking, and next time, the whole walking process will need re-adjusting.