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THROWING THE WALKING FRAME "Paralympics?" said the man of around my age who'd stopped to watch me.      "Throwing The Walking Frame," I explained. "It's a new event. Apparently the host country can pick an entirely new event and we've chosen Throwing The Walking Frame. Just nudged out the Triple Hop, Hop and Hop for the one-legged I believe."      I'd found the walking frame abandoned in the park a couple of minutes earlier. Don't ask me why someone would abandon a walking frame because I've no idea. Perhaps its owner had been suddenly cured by a faith healer and having no further need of its support had dramatically cast it away. Or maybe it hadn't been abandoned at all, maybe it had been thrown away by someone who had taken delivery of a new, lighter, faster, carbon fibre, tungsten-tipped walking frame, I just don't know. Anyway it was there in the park and I found it.      Thankfully at the age of sixty eight I still have a bit of the devil in me and when I saw the man approaching I thought I'd have a bit of a laugh, hence the walking frame throw above. Now the man watched as I picked up the walking frame and returned to the spot from which I'd thrown it. I threw it again. This time it went about a couple of yards farther.      "Farther this time," the man observed, approvingly.      "Must be close to my PB that one," I said, pleased with myself.      "Can anyone enter?"      "I suppose so. You have to have a walking frame of course."      I retrieved the walking frame and made to throw it again.      "Can I have a go?" asked the man eagerly.      I handed him the walking frame. He drew his arm back and threw it a good five yards farther than I had.      "You're a natural." I said. "Why don't you get a walking frame of your own and join me. There's an individual competition and a four man team event, but we'd need another two for that. I train every morning at ten."      He said he'd be there tomorrow, prompt. My friend Atkins Down The Road, a man always up for a bit of fun, joined me for my Throwing the Walking Frame training session at ten the following morning. Ever resourceful he already had his own walking frame, having picked it up at a charity shop some time ago in readiness for when the time comes that he'll need one, and employed in the meantime in his allotment as a support for his climbing strawberries.      When we arrived at the park the man who I met yesterday, Mr Jeffs, was accompanied by two of his friends, who were also interested in training for the Throwing the Walking Frame event. Like Mr Jeffs they were aged about seventy. One was introduced as Mr Barnaby, the other, a Scot, was Mr Ross. It turned out Atkins knew Mr Jeffs, who used to be his milkman at one time.      Straight away Mr Barnaby pointed out that he didn't actually use a walking frame - the one he had brought along was his wife's - and enquired as to whether it was in the rules of the competition that a competitor had to be an actual walking frame user, as he didn't want to waste time training up for the event if this was the case. I confessed that I didn't know but asked him who was to prove otherwise? I also pointed out that the Paralympic Games were over six years away and by then he would in all probability have the genuine need of a walking frame, as might the rest of us. This seemed to satisfy him.      Before we got down to some serious training I added a refinement in the shape of an 8 feet diameter circle that I painted on the grass with some white emulsion I had left over from decorating our bedroom ceilings.      The training went very well; the only problem being that Mr Ross, who is a genuine walking frame user, fell flat on his face every time he threw his walking frame. I assured him that this wouldn't lead to disqualification as the rules stated that provided the competitor didn't step out of, or in his case fall out of, the circle, it would be deemed a fair throw.      In fact it was Mr Ross who threw his walking frame the farthest. I wasn't surprised by this, because of his country of birth, the Scots traditionally being very big on throwing things, hammers, cabers, tantrums, uppercuts and so on. Mr Barnaby wasn't far behind and it will be interesting to see which of them eventually turns out to be the best thrower. Atkins Down The Road was hopeless, but this was probably because it took him all his time to keep his face straight, let along throw his walking frame.      We ended the session by having a chat about the way ahead and decided to put in for lottery funding, to be taken up by Mr Barnaby. On the way home Atkins and I decided there is no way we can continue without cracking up and resolved not to go again, or if we do, to view the proceedings from the cover of the trees.      A couple of days later I was tidying up in the back garden when the back door opened and The Trouble, wearing her 'And what have you been up to now?' expression, called to me: "There are three men with walking frames at the front door."      I tried to look unconcerned. "Oh yes?"      "What do they want?"      I spread my hands. "Search me. Perhaps they're collecting for something?"      "Well if it's walking frames they're collecting they're having a lot of success. See to them would you."      I went to the front door. Abreast of each other were Mr Jeffs, Mr Barnaby and Mr Ross. Standing behind their walking frames they looked like a small football crowd. How had they known where I lived?      "Mr Atkins told us where you lived," said Mr Jeffs, answering my unspoken question as if on cue. I made a mental note to give Atkins Down The Road a piece of my mind the next time we met; they'd obviously called on him and now he was making me have some of what they'd given him.      "Why haven't you been turning up for training?" asked Mr Ross?      "I've decided to change my event." Well I had to say something.      I thought quickly. They would no doubt want to know which event I'd switched to. The Downhill Stairlift was the first paraplegic-like competition that sprang to mind. I could tell them I was already in training for it and had already got very close to Thora Hird's long-standing record. But hang on a minute. Downhill Stairlift? Wouldn't that be a Winter Paralympics event? Is there such a thing as the Winter Paralympics? Skiing down the side of a mountain at a hundred miles-an-hour is difficult enough as it is without being hampered by having only one arm or one leg or partial sight, so probably not.      "What event are you going in for then?" asked Mr Jeffs, breaking into my thoughts.      "Putting the Truss," I said. "In fact I'm just off to the hospital for a new one, nice seeing you all again," and with that I walked down the drive and out of their lives forever.