He is risen (unaided)

The sight of that lone crutch in the little car park on George's Place stopped me in my tracks.
This is not after all the sort of item that one would inadvertently leave behind ("Honey, have you seen my crutch? Shite, I think that I may have left it on the train. No wonder I found it harder than usual to walk back home... Such a fecken eedjit I am...")

The only plausible explanation is that I once again missed a miracle by a whisker.
Which is annoying.
There was still a lingering smell of religious fervour in the air.
Or perhaps it was methadone.
I tend to get the two confused...