This evening, we were just in Manchester for a meal. Mark and Kat go back to Paris on Saturday, so we went up to eat a curry with Luke. The food was, let us say, less than great, and I remembered why I prefer real ale to larger, but anyway…

I don’t usually take my lightwriter out when just with my family; part of me wants to, for the sake of my identity as a cripple, but as they all understand me I don’t usually bother. I therefore don’t speak much to anyone outside the family – none of us do, actually.. I suppose this is a throwback to my pre-uni days when I was shy and retiring.

The thing is, I am no longer shy. Thus, at one point, my beer needed pouring into my glass. Mark, who was sitting opposite, was chatting away. Therefore, I gesticulated to the waiter, pointed to my bottle of cobra, then, in an arching movement, the glass. I do not know bsl, and I doubt the waiter would have, but the sign was clear enough. He came, poured the so-called beer, and I thanked him.

My lightwriter would have been better for disability rights, but, sometimes, when you need a beer, gesturing works just as well.