John hates his cane.
John hates his cane. He needs it, but he hates it. It's not because it's a generic, hospital issue cane, and not a beautiful piece of useful art. (he would still hate it then) He hates it because it's his constant companion.
John hates his cane. He hates it because he has to sleep with it next to his bed, so that when he gets up in the middle of the night for a drink of water, or to use the loo, he has to use the cane to get from his bed to the kitchen or the toilet.
John hates his cane. He hates it when he drops it, and has to painfully bend down to pick it up. He hates it when the cane makes a loud clatter when it falls. Usually in a crowded public place, and everyone turns around to see what the noise was.
John hates his cane. He hates his cane when he forgets it against the wall, or alongside his chair, when he limps across the room to get something, and then realizes that his cane is on the other side of the room and he really needs it NOW to make it back to the other side of the room.
John hates his cane. He hates that because he's using the cane, that he only has his right hand to carry the shopping home. If he John wants to get more than just tea, some biscuits and the milk, he's pretty much got to give up the milk, because it's too heavy to carry home if he wants to buy some fruit, or some cans of beans, or something else that's heavy. Carrying more than one heavy shopping bag is hard to do when you only have one hand to carry it in, because the other hand has to carry that hateful cane.
John hates his cane. He hates it when the cane slips on icy pavement in the winter. He hates it when he tries to walk on a freshly mopped tile floor in a restaurant, and it slips out from underneath him and he slips and draws attention to himself and that hateful cane.
John hates his cane. He hates it because when he's in a sandwich shop, and has to try to carry a tray with a sandwich, crisps and a cup of tea, and can't quite manage it because he has to use that hateful cane, and can't balance the tray without either almost spilling it, or worse. Actually spilling it. He hates that he'd have to ask the cashier behind the counter if they could help him with the tray. Sometimes they'll cheerfully offer to help him, but a lot of times the cashier will barely suppress an annoyed sigh. They'll help him, but grudgingly. So, usually John will just make do with a cup of tea.
John hates his cane. John hates it that Mrs Hudson feels like she doesn't need to ask John to help her carry his shopping in when she picks up other necessities for him that she's noticed he's in need of. John doesn't feel that Mrs Hudson should be helping him, because she's got a hip.
John hates his cane. He hates it that sometimes using the cane on bad days makes his wrist and arm, and sometimes his shoulder hurt.
John hates his cane. He hates his cane because when you walk across grass with a bad limp, and the ground isn't quite even, he stumbles on the uneven ground as he visits the grave of a very dear friend that left him suddenly, and without warning.
John hates his cane.