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I have a confession to make - and it's that secretly, just between you and me, I rather enjoy my occasional visits to the prosthetic limb clinic to get Lurch, my trusty metal and polypropylene leg, repaired and polished and generally made almost as good as new.

Last Friday evening I had an unfortunate leg-breaking incident. It occurred as I was leaving the office, and resulted in me coming into close personal contact with the hard stone floor of the reception area here at palatial Ö÷²¥´óÐã Towers, So come Monday morning, I headed off to Roehampton to see my prosthetist. He and I chatted for a while about music and the bands we'd recently seen, as we always do on these occasions - before he took Lurch off to the workshop to administer some tender loving care by attacking him with a spanner and various other complicated tools.

Meanwhile, I was left one-legged in the waiting room, trying to stop my jeans from falling down over my suddenly shortened right leg, and browsing the same selection of glossy motoring magazines that I reckon they had there last time. (No, I do not want to read about the new limited edition Porsche, thank you.)

The clinic is based in a hospital, of course. Now I hate hospitals with a passion, but going there is more like popping off to the local garage on a Saturday afternoon to get your car fixed 'while u wait'. Because men and women are obviously seen in separate rooms, I can only speak for the blokes, but it seems that they really do sit around eyeing up each others' latest models and discussing in geezer-ish tones what went wrong with their limb.

"Yeah, my socket's giving me some right aggro, I'll 'ave you know. I'm in bleedin' agony 'ere!"

"One minute I was walking along, happy as Larry - the next minute THWACK! on the ground. Me knee had blimmin' well gone, hadn't it?"

"Loose foot, me old mate. Third time I've been in 'ere this year. I hope they can get it fixed up right this time. I'm supposed to be doing competitive tango with the missus on Friday night."

And so on and so forth. I might have rather exaggerated these tales for comic effect, but I'm sure you get the picture.

But here's what I'm wondering. Firstly, female prosthetic limb users - what do you discuss whilst going in for a quick repair job? Is comparing the battle scars on your false leg or arm merely a male preserve? Do the simple stories of your falls and breakages become tales of daring and adventure, like I always seem to hear in the male waiting room?

And secondly: this surely isn't just the case with prosthetic limb users, is it? What's the experience like when you go and get your mobility aid an MOT and a bit of spit and polish? Satisfy my curiosity in the comments ...