If you want to learn about life, get a walking stick. I did, when, after a period of denial, I reluctantly accepted that multiple sclerosis was causing me to become unsteady. I felt as if my legs were being operated by somebody else; somebody who wasn’t paying attention.

My GP booked me an appointment with a physiotherapist, who observed me walking to assess what was required, suggested a simple stick, and guided me on its correct use. So as not to place undue strain on elbows and shoulders, the arm should be straight, the handle reaching the end of the arm. For me, an ergonomic handle (which lessens callouses) was the way to go.

I was then given a lesson in stick wrangling. Users are advised to carry their stick when climbing stairs, relying on stable bannisters instead. So much for those “spot the fraud” exposés, where people spotted climbing flights of stairs, stick in hand, are deemed skivers. That is what you are supposed to do. I was then taught how to stand up properly (push yourself up without using your stick). Also, if you have one dodgy leg, the stick is held against the good leg. Those films where a disabled cop wobbles with one bad leg against a stick are just plain wrong. Maintenance, too, is important: a metal telescopic stick should make a pleasing hollow thud. If it doesn’t, it is wearing out and needs replacing. All this is free, locally provided by the NHS.

It can take a while to get into your stride, but walking soon becomes natural – the knack is to treat your stick like an extra leg, rather like this scene from Delicatessen, albeit without maracas. It is also teaching me a lot about people. My walking stick is a visible declaration that I am weaker than others, which occasionally makes me feel vulnerable – but I also enjoy quiet fantasies of being a cyborg with an additional metal leg.

The action of walking in public regularly reveals the unspoken hierarchy as we move along within that notional bubble of personal space that surrounds us all. If oncoming entwined couples threaten to sweep me aside, a pointed tap on the pavement usually alerts them. People with two sticks prevail, a wheelchair has right of way, a mobility scooter and everyone scatters. But I dread cyclists on pavements. Please don’t do this; you can’t see my limitations and I am slow to get out of your way.

I have also encountered a fresh and dangerous level of manspreading. This simple neologism takes on a sinister meaning when your stick is knocked out from beneath you by a burly man striding proudly, wide and long. And no, he didn’t so much as look back, let alone apologise, despite my remonstrations (swearing). Then there are the people who wince with shame on realising they have just barged into a person with a walking stick. They shouldn’t be barging into, and potentially knocking over, anyone in the first place, let alone a woman with a visible disability.

While happy to lose my debilitating wobble, I now struggle to hold a bag full of heavy shopping as well as a handbag, while reaching for keys, maybe pulling on gloves, answering my phone and maintaining an upright posture. Then down comes the rain and I scramble for an unwieldy umbrella. That stick is an additional complication.

Mobility issues had already limited my choice of shoes. Never keen on vertiginous heels, I surrendered to flats some years back. I also had to re-evaluate my handbags. I was never fond of clutch bags; mercifully, as they are now utterly impractical. I need a bag directly on my shoulder, not low-slung as before. I have jettisoned bulkier bags so I can hold the stick properly, close to my side. I suppose the fact that my jaywalking days are over is a good thing: no more speedily scuttling across roads. Journeys will now always take longer. My nemesis are amber-light-gambling taxi drivers who deem my transit too slow, and drive menacingly towards me as a warning.

But I have also learned that people are usually very kind. Drivers slow down to let me cross, people pick up my stick if I drop it, and also open gates. However, they are occasionally callous, slamming doors, glaring in an accusing fashion when I can’t reciprocate to hold the entrance open in return, or bumping in to me without looking, usually while texting.

I am now obsessed with bespoke carved wooden sticks, currently on my wishlist. Regulation NHS sticks are uniform and grim. It is important to me as an individual to stamp my identity on to an item that is now an unalterable part of my life. So, bored of regulation black sticks, and encouraged by the physiotherapist, I decided to customise mine. Glitter paint was mentioned, but I’m not a nine-year old girl. Someone else suggested ribbons, which are bit too Morris-dancer. Fortunately, I know some very kind and talented artists, who spent time carefully decorating my black stick, creating excellent art using gold paint.

Ross Sinclair spent hours painting his signature statement Real Life, Alan Campbell added a lovely abstract crow, Kate V Robertson provided a hand clutching the stick, and Fiona Wilson a tattoo-style skull and rose. I feel so much better about using a walking aid since it was so beautifully personalised. Now when I set out, I reach for my keys, phone and stick. I am still me, a person who uses a stick but is not defined by it. It just holds me upright. Which is all you can ask of a walking stick.