I was born without legs. I've used artificial ones for most of my life, and at first glance it's not obvious why I need crutches (stick with me; you need this information for background). For some time now, I've been fascinated by the strangely formulaic responses and reactions I get from people who are meeting me for the first time, or even just looking in my direction.

The British are, as we know, fairly reserved, polite, and often awkward. Which means most of the time when I meet new people, they don't ask why I'm on crutches. All that changes, however, if I'm out at night and the drinks are flowing. The interest levels seem to rise in parallel with the alcohol levels, and it's extraordinary how often I am clocked over the course of an evening by a sincere nod and the phrase: "Well done for coming out, mate."

Occasionally this phrase is accompanied by a reassuring squeeze of my left shoulder but that's it: no further conversation, no attempt to discover how difficult it has been for me to "come out". Which is a shame, because I usually have a fascinating tale to tell about a contact lens crisis that could so easily have scuppered my plans.

Other times I'll get a "well done for coming out, mate" shout from a stranger walking in the opposite direction – without either of us slowing our steps. It makes me wonder if there was a day at school I missed when textbook uses of the phrase were taught. It just seems so peculiar that so many people use the exact same wording. "Well done for coming out, mate" – it's like an automatic response every time they see someone on crutches having a drink.

And (if it's OK with you) I do enjoy having the odd drink. In fact, back in my "wild" student days, my party trick in nightclubs was to hop out of my artificial legs, walk upside-down on my hands, climb podiums and make a general spectacle of myself. There's a club in Leeds – at least, there was in my day – which served double tequila shots for a pound a go (if you don't know it, it's the only one I know of with a St John ambulance parked permanently outside). I still maintain I'm the only person who has ever been asked to leave this particular establishment and needed two taxis to transport all of me home.

On another occasion, I remember finding out who I could impress by jumping out of my legs and climbing up to the top of the dance podium (well, it seemed a good idea at the time). A literal out-of-body experience: when I looked down, my legs were crowdsurfing all around the dance floor.

I'm older and possibly a little wiser now, and I have come to the conclusion that the world can be divided into three distinct groups. The aforementioned "well done for coming out, mate" group, the Inquisitors, and the Troubled.

The Inquisitors are interested, curious – and demand answers. Normally a short, occasionally awkward conversation ensues while I explain my lack of legs. Commonly, an Inquisitor's mission during this conversation is to find a line of questioning that is staggeringly original. I'm 30 now, and I can count on one hand the number of times they have succeeded. One such time, I remember being questioned in a dark and loud club at about 2am by a girl who wanted to know what my legs were made from. This in itself is not unusual, and I went into my automatic response mode.

"They're very complicated," I explained condescendingly, "but there's a lot of foam, cables and metal inside."

"Oh," she replied, "which metal?"

This had me scrabbling into the depths of my memory for early physics lessons at school, never a subject that filled me with confidence.

"Titanium?" I hesitatingly suggested.

"Don't you know for sure?" she sneered. "I would have thought you'd know exactly which metal was in your legs."

Sometimes curiosity gets the better of an Inquisitor, and they ask if they can "have a feel". I assume this is partly to check whether I've been lying to them, and it can give off the wrong impression having strangers squeezing me up and down while I nurse a drink and chat to friends. When the examination is over, the Inquisitor usually turns to me and agrees that I was right – I don't have any legs.

Another characteristic of an Inquisitor is that they are keen to "have a go" on my crutches. And it doesn't seem to matter where I am. I might be in the middle of the dance floor, precariously holding a pint of lager when someone approaches and asks if I'm using those crutches. It's hard to find an answer sarcastic enough for this question, but I find "no, no, they're just accessories" suffices.

I'm being unfairly harsh; in fact, I have been known to let someone "have a go" if I'm sitting down or leaning against a pillar and my sticks are redundant. But what I do know is that you should never, ever lend your crutches to a hen do – not if you want to see them again, anyway.

On the whole, I reckon I can cope with Inquisitors. The Troubled are my bete noire. They're well-meaning, of course, but exasperating. The Troubled presume, after finding out why I'm on crutches, that I will naturally also be interested in their tales of skiing accidents, sprained ankles, and the time they tripped up over a raised paving stone. Typically, no names have been exchanged beforehand and no breath is inhaled while I'm forced to listen to this tedium in minute detail.

Occasionally, the Troubled wish to talk about more serious times; they want to share with me their personal family tragedies. (Why? As any of my friends will testify, sympathy is not my greatest trait.) And so I find myself nodding, trying to look sympathetic, as a stranger tells me about his second cousin's motorbike accident five years ago.

I don't wish to sound heartless, but when you're on a night out with your friends, enjoying a few drinks and having a good time, finding yourself embroiled in a stranger's troubles can be a little . . . deflating. I understand that seeing someone on crutches can remind you of your time on them (and I do even enjoy having my ego massaged by a temporary crutch user about my abilities on sticks), but it doesn't follow that I'm the best person to talk to about more severe, general disasters.

So, when a guy who had been telling me about his cousin's motorcycle accident finally stopped for a moment to ask how his cousin's paralysis compared to my life, all I could tell him was that it didn't compare at all. I was very sorry to hear about his cousin's situation, but I had no concept of what life was like for him. How could I?

Still, the Troubled, the Inquisitors and the "well done for coming out, mate" groups do all share one positive influence on my life. I should, at least, be grateful to them all for never allowing me to feel like I'm fading into the background, ignored. And when I've made such a show of my artificial legs and crutches in the past, I can hardly gripe when people notice, can I?

Richard Pollins is a news editor at Five News.