Ye gads what a day it has been. What started as a to hour trip to Woolwich and back turned into a five hour adventure, resulting in my being late for tea and the drinking of rather too much beer. I needed o pop down to the local social services today in order to sort something out at Riverside house. On my way through the town centre, though, I mistook a curb for flat ground, and flew out of my chair. I was fine, and could easily have just dusted myself off and got on my way. But the people around me saw, and, thinking I might need help, called an ambulance. ”Oh lord” I thought ”this is all I need.”

To cut a long story short, and after several attempts to explain I was perfectly fine, I got someone to call chopper. I know I should not have: ideally I should have called our PA, Mitchell. I rely too much on chopper, and calling Mitchell would have been the proper course of action. Yet, not having Mitchell’s number on me, an hoping that Chopper would be able to get there quicker and get me out of that mess more swiftly, I resorted to friend rather than PA.

My hunch worked, and my friend – an older, uglier version of Charlie if ever I saw one – was with us within twenty minutes. He explained everything I couldn’t to the ambulance ladies, sorted out the paperwork, and we were on our way. He even then helped me sort out my business t the council (although I still need to write a letter – a fact which I would not have found out had Chopper not helped). Well, what else could I do than buy him a pint or three for his troubles? I had intended to have an alcohol free day – to sort out my stuff, then come home. I wanted to pop out and then spend some quality time with Lyn. But if a guy asks only for you to buy him a pint in return for such services, what else can one do? Now though, being shattered after today’s misadventures, and having changed for bed early, it’s time gave Lyn the hug I intended to hours ago.

I am not too happy about this, although otherwise it has so far been a good day. I had to go to the hospital earlier to pick up my new shoes. It isn’t too far away so I just drove there in my chair. On the way, I had to cross the road at a pedestrian crossing, where a guy in a mobility scooter pulled up beside me. Now, I have this thing against scooters: I think they’re for old fogies, and no serious, self-respecting crip would be seen dead in one. They’re unpractical, unmanoeuvrable, and anyone who grew up around wheelchair and wheelchair users knows not to take them seriously. Thus, when I saw him beside me, I had visions of the race scenes in the Back to the Future films: if I could have revved my engine, I would have. I was gonna show this scooter man what real crips ride!

Only, things did not go as I had intended. To my horror, the scooter pulled away from me, and beat me across the road. ”God dammit!” I thought. ”Beaten by a grannymobile!” I was not at all happy, although I must say my chair is quite old, and thanks to it’s manoeuvrability I reached the hospital before the guy. But even so: beaten by a scooter! I need a beer.

Last night I watched ‘Fry’s Planet Word’ on Iplayer, having missed it when it first aired on Sunday night. I thought it was an amazing programme, all about language and it’s importance for humanity. I have long thought that people often forget how important language is; after all, as this programme pointed out, the development of complex systems of communication was one of the main factors behind the development of human civilisation. However, this morning a friend on Facebook pointed out to me that this programme could also function as a vital tool for VOCA users and their allies: there is often a problem that people are denied the equipment they need by so-called professionals, unaware of how vital the ability to communicate is, so their language is effectively ‘stolen’. As Terry put it: ” Stephen Fry’s Planet Word – new series on BBC 2 Sundays 9 pm GMT- this is the first one. absolutely brilliant program on Language! will massively help our fight against The Language Stealers by helping our lawyers understand just what it is his speech therapists, teachers and social care workers are stealing from my son and countless others like him, highly recommended to all our AAC friends and anyone who would support Michael’s right to language. Thank you Stephen Fry!” what I think we need to do now is contact Mr. Fry himself and make him aware of this aspect of his programme – maybe he could mention it on future series. In the meantime, if you haven’t already seen it, I urge you to go watch this fascinating programme.

Yesterday I came across this website for a wheelchair-accessible motorbike, and began to wonder whether I could drive such a thing. To be honest, I think it would be useful: we rely on public transport to get around town, which is fine most of the time, but it has it’s drawbacks. Busses only go to certain places, and you often wait ages for one only to find the wheelchair space is occupied by a pram. Being able on get about on a bike would certainly make getting about easier, not to mention cooler. However, when you consider he idea seriously, it’s probably not a good idea for me. Traffic in London is fairly hellish: my brother Luke has a motorbike, and even he won’t risk driving it in the city, so the mess I’d probably cause if I was let loose on he roads doesn’t bear thinking about. Besides, there only appears to be enough space for one chair, so I couldn’t lake Lyn with me, let alone our PA. it looks like I better stick to the good old busses and trains.

I just want to briefly address something which cropped up in the comments to this entry. It is, of course, not the case that my parents did not take us anywhere on our trips to London. In fact, we went all over the place. One of my favourite family traditions was to go to see father Christmas in Selfridges department store every autumn half term. They also took me to places like the science museum, and to the many royal parks. The thing is, I can now explore these places under my own steam; with Lyn, I have to plan out how to get there myself. And, as dad said in his comment, I’m now seeing all these places through more educated eyes, so it’s like looking at them afresh. The love I have now for this city is the love of a native, or the love of the flaneur: there is so much I want to (re-) explore, this time as a lover rather than as a son. I can’t wait to go to the science museum or the natural history museum with Lyn; I’m especially eager to go to Kew with her. However, I’m not sure we’ll be too fussed about seeing father Christmas in Selfridges.

I just want to direct you here, to a Blog entry from Lyn in which he describes how she got her stolen Mac Back. It really is quite an incredible story, and Lyn tells it well, so go read. I really am proud of my fiancee and personally think MI5 are fools if they don’t headhunt her now.

I suppose I better admit that I failed in my ambition not to drink until tomorrow, and therefore deserve punching. Chopper and I went to the pub this afternoon, so I’m currently pretty angry at myself. I suppose that, to be fair, it was not totally my fault: I needed money today, so I went to ask chopper if he wanted to accompany me on the ride down to Bexley. While I was outside his house, talking to him, one of his new neighbours popped up with a bottle of cheap champagne. He was new to the area, and I didn’t want to seem rude by turning down his offer of a cup. So that is how I broke my vow of abstinence, and once it was broken, I thought I might as well have a pint or two with my friend on my way home.

Given I was one day out I’m rather angry with myself, as I was sort of challenging myself. That makes me sound like a complete alcoholic, but I don’t really drink that much – I jut like a pint or two every couple of nights. I suppose, too, that I hadn’t drank since Saturday, and I seem to get quite anal about things like this, so there’s no need to beat myself up too much. I do need to cut down, and I have been feeling better this week for it, but I guess there is no point in flogging myself too much for missing an essentially arbitrary target. I guess my lapse today wasn’t the end of the world, but you are still free to punch me in the face.

My dads comment in reply to my last entry really touched me, and my eyes fill up with tears each time I read it, so I think a complete change of subject is in order. It has been ages since I attacked anyone personally on my blog, and I try to avoid ranting about people, but the truth is it can be fun. A couple of days ago I came across this article by Peter Hitchens. It is a perfect example off why I loathe those on the right so much, and why I am increasingly coming to think that their point on view is nothing more than a set of id impulses which they mistake for a political stance. It is about the victimization of disabled people, and ordinarily I’d support any such article, but the way in which Hitchens blames such victimization on the liberalization of society, by claiming that, because of political correctness, the perpetrator now feel as if they can get away with it, has me up in arms. This seems to me incredibly simplistic; I also think Hitchens is hijacking this case to forward his own agenda, when in fact he has no right to do so.

I hate the way that those on the right attack political correctness by claiming it to be some kind of repressive force, or that it prevents freedom of speech. Do they not understand that it is designed to be a system of ensuring equality, and to ensure that minorities are represented fairly? The PC ethos is, for me, born of the same principles as liberalism; they both understand that there are reasons why people act how they act. It is also founded upon the principle on which that of the freedom of speech is founded, so to somehow claim the PC agenda somehow infringes freedom of speech is truly ironic, and surely evidence of the right’s lack of understanding. Moreover, disabled people can be victimized for a number of reasons – economic, sociological, psychological – which we must understand in order to deal with the problem. This is not to absolve people of personal responsibility, but to realize that things are far more complex than to say some people are just evil and need to be punished. The irony is that Hitchens tries to pin the problem of disabled people’s victimization on the very ethos whose principles can remedy it. That’s why I find his argument very, very simplistic, and also why I feel insulted by his patronizing use of ‘poor, defenseless disabled people’ to further his mindless rightist arguments. It is not simply a case of bad people being allowed to get away with things by a system whose hands are tied by a reluctance to blame people for their actions, but the realization by civilization that things are far more complex than black and white, and that in order to solve a problem we need to first understand the reasons behind it. This is a realization that people like Hitchens seem yet to have, which is why I view their politics with such scorn and derision. In short, I think they’re morons.

I think I am falling more and more deeply in love with London. As with any major city, I suppose, it can be seen as a microcosm for the entire world, with most of humanity in all it’s diversity represented in one geographical space. But the thing with this microcosm is that it’s not that micro: London is vast, and it takes time to get around it; because of this, the landscape is also quite varied, and I think that is what I really like about London – it just begs you to go exploring.

The area that begs the most is the centre of London – the city of London, down by the river. We were there yesterday, on foot. Dom said he wanted to take us to a cafe he had found. As with all the best trips, I didn’t know where we were going, but when we got there I was amazed. He had taken to an old hydraulic pumping station which hey had turned into a restaurant. It was a truly fascinating place: church- like in size and shape, yet still very recognizable as a factory where some great industry had once taken place. The pumping machines were still there, candles flickering from them. Between these were the white tables and chairs for the customers, as well as televisions showing fashion shows. Thus there was a great juxtaposition of light and dark, old and new, industrial and human in the space; it would make, as Lyn said, a great space to perform in, and indeed she intends to look into the possibility of doing so. As for myself, I would just relish the chance to go back there.

We decided not to eat there, however, and after a coffee walked on along the river. The London of my youth was a London of the car: I think I’ve described on here before how my parents used to drive us down here to spend weekends with my grandparents. I did not usually get to see much of London then, apart from the roads and houses of Harlesden and Kilburn. These days, however, London for me is a London of the river. I get to see Thames quite often; it’s southern banks are easily within walking distance. I see London as a much more watery place these days, with the river a much more prominent geographical feature in my life. We were strolling along it’s north shore yesterday afternoon, when I caught a glimpse of tower bridge, and rarely have I seen a more beautiful site. Aye, I have fallen in love with this city.

We walked for a few minutes, then came to a kind of dock for yachts. It was st. Kathrin’s dock, and we went in. again, I found it fascinating – it was so different to anywhere else in London I knew of. It reminded me of Amsterdam. I could tell, too, that there was a hell of a lot of money about. There were a few nice looking restaurants down there, but we found a pub, The Dickens Inn, and went in.

I think it’s fair to say I have eaten a lot of pizza in my life. Back at university, coming back from late lecturers, it was just something quick and easy I could buy and feed myself. These days, I guess I eat one a week, so,, like life in London itself, pizza has just become normal, run of the mill. Yet the pizza we ate last night was outstanding, and one of the best I’ve ever tasted. Pizza, like London, can vary hugely, and there’s always something new to try; and like London, it still has the ability to excite me, captivate me, take my breath away, even if it sometimes feels humdrum.

I just have a couple of musical links to direct you to today. I’m not sure whether I’ve posted lins to them on here before, but, as both artists are related, they’re worth linking to in one blog entry. First, let me direct you here, where you can hear the melodic, relaxing and incredibly impressive vocal Harmonies of the harmonettes. Charlie is in this group, and their new site looks awesome. Second, I only found out about Hugh’s new site last night. It’s very different to the first, but then it’s rather different to any other genre of music know. Although he does look slightly geeky in his picture (he should never have cut off his dreads) his site is well worth a look. Both, in my opinion, are well worth a gander.

If anyone catches me with a beer before Friday night, they have my permission to punch me in the face. I’m trying to cut down on my drinking; I had intended to have a week of abstinence from Thursday onwards. That was when my parents popped down, and we collectively decided I needed to drink less and take in more vitamins, as that might help with my absences. I spend too much in pubs anyway, so after my detoxification week I’m only have the odd night out.

However, yesterday afternoon I popped over to chopper’s, only to find him in quite a state. He had fallen out of his loft and was obviously in quite a bit of pain. At first I offered to scoot off, to keep out of his way, but he declined that proposition vehemently. Then it occurred to me that what my buddy needed was a pint, so I proposed that he borrowed my manual wheelchair and we go to the Royal Oak.

So we went. I told myself (and Lyn) that I’d stick to Coke or lemonade, but one thing predictably lead to another; pubs just seem to have that effect on me, and needless to say I felt annoyed with myself when I got home. My alcohol free week had been going so well, and I knew that the pint I’d have at the end of it would taste all the better for it, but now I have to start again. On thee other hand, I suppose I shouldn’t be too hard on myself for being so weak-willed: mates are mates after all.

Mind you, I keep forgetting that there are much cooler things than pubs in the would: I haven’t been clothes shopping in ages, and, for me, the cool, tight feel of a new leotard easily outweighs an evening in a grotty pub. It’s also kinder to my liver. The next time the C-ster asks if I want a trip to the pub, I’ll propose we go shopping instead.

Lyn and I may have found somewhere new to hang out: the problem is, it’s not the best place to get around in if you use a wheelchair. Yesterday we decided to check out the Westfield Centre in Stratford, a new shopping centre which is apparently the biggest in Europe. It was easy enough for us to get to, and I was certainly impressed at first glance. For my northern readers, just think of the Trafford Centre, pump if full of steroids, remove some of the aesthetics and you will get some idea of what this place is like. It is huge – in fact, I found it too big. I felt constantly lost but thankfully I was following Marta around so I didn’t have to worry about navigation. However, as the day wore on, the place grew busier and busier, so it became harder and harder to keep up with Marta and Lyn as people kept barging in front of me. I usually like such places, but yesterday it seemed half of London had converged in one place and navigating my chair became very, very stressful. I must admit that, tellingly, I didn’t feel my usual childlike pang of regret and disappointment when the time came to come home.

Having said all that, I think we will be going again. Part of me, the masochistic part perhaps, kind of liked he place. As I said, it is easy enough to get to, and it would be a great place to do our Christmas shopping. It lacks some of the aesthetics of it’s northern counterpart – the roman-style columns ad so on – and could do with being just a little smaller, but the place itself is okay. The problem is, I just think it would be even better if we were the only people there.

I’m sorry this link might not direct you to the correct show for long, but on The One show this evening we saw something interesting. Research as recently shown that most non-professional runners, such as those that will enter the great north run this wekend, don’t run correctly. They run heel-toe, as most people do when walking. The most efficient and least painful way to run is, apparently, to run on the balls of your feet. That might not, in itself, be interesting, but I find it very, very ironic. Like many ambulant ‘toids, I walk on the balls of my feet because my Achilles tendon is tight. Growing up, my parents and physios were forever reminding me to walk properly and put my heels down. Now it turns out that I was walking in the best way all along, and I can point to the research that proves it. Win!

On the local midday news today there was a short piece about this website. Tubecrush.net is where people submit pictures of strangers on the tube and rate them for their looks. I have no problem with this, but these days I use the underground every couple of weeks or so. I had to wonder if a photo of me might one day appear on there, but then it occurred to me that, if that happened, there is a very real possibility that I would die of laughing.

Right – how’s your physics? I’m feeling much better today, and my fears over Chopper turned out to be entirely unfounded. He’s a good friend, and when I told him I was embarrassed about what happened on Monday he told me he just accepts it as he accepts any other aspect of my CP. Anyway, changing the subject entirely, I think I’ll just direct you here. I don’t understand any of it, but check out the authors. Go Mark! Go Mark!

I still feel stupid; I always do after it happens. Yesterday was a great day, bright and sunny. Our friend chopper had the day of so about one he came round and invited me out: it seems he was in the mood to do something fun, but wasn’t sure what. We eventually decided to go up into London – we had been planning to have a boys’ day out for quite a while, and yesterday suddenly became the day to do it.

The thing is, I was having one of my off days. I sometimes get odd little absences; according to my parents, they’re not epilepsy, but are related to it. I don’t lose consciousness, but they break my concentration, blur my sense of space, and generally confuse and worry me. I had had one an hour or so before chopper came round so I was feeling a bit low, so I thought a trip out might take my mind off it.

So off we went, making first for the train station, ad from there to the city centre. Chopper said he wanted to show me London as he knew it – the London of a man who has lived here all his life. It was great fun – first we got money, then went to a pub, then decided w needed more money. I won’t tell you everything that happened up there, because that is between me and my friend, but needless to say we ha a really great time. However, at about half eight, around about Leicester Square, I zoned out again. We had just eaten some pizza, and were headed towards soho. I was probably just tired. Chopper noticed, and decided it was time to come home. I couldn’t’ disagree too much, as we had been up there for a good five or six hours, but I couldn’t help feeling a mixture of embarrassment and disappointment. There was much more I wanted to see (he’d promised me ladyboys!) but now I’m worried that he’ll be reluctant to take me up there again. Chopper says he will, and we must wait till we have a bit more cash in our accounts anyway, but things like that make me feel insecure about myself.

I find myself wanting to say something profound tonight. I want to say something aout the events of ten years ago and everything that has happened since on the world stage. 9/11 was terrible, and the two conflicts that happened because of it possibly even worse. But I have no words to sum all that up. The truth is, I said what I wanted to get across yesterday, and I fear anything I write tonight would just be overly emotional, vitriolic or just fall flat, so I think I’ll just send you here instead.

As we all know, this weekend marks the tenth anniversary of September the eleventh, 2001. As with all such catastrophes, we can all remember where we were and what we were doing when we heard of the attacks. I remember I’d just come home after my second day at Macclesfield College. Dad had put the TV on, and was flipping through satellite channels. Suddenly, we found one financial channel showing one of the world trade centres with smoke billowing out of it. At first, when someone said a plane had hit the tower, I assumed it was just a light aircraft, and that some fool had done in reality what I, at the tame, took pleasure in doing on Microsoft Flight Simulator. But then the second plane hit, and I realised this was no laughing matter.

Yet, personally, I can’t help looking back at that date without smiling slightly: it gives me a fixed point in time, a temporal marker. For me, 9/11 was just about the beginning of a decade which brought me almost total joy, and during which I had the best times of my life. As I said I’d just started college: earlier that year, my time at Hebden Green school had ended; I had spent about twelve or thirteen years at that school, so the brave new world seemed rather daunting. I suppose it’s fair to say I was institutionalised. But it had come to a close with the shocking news of the death of my classmate Andrew Fox, so I was also still rather cut up about that. At that time, then, I suppose I was a timid eighteen year old, living with his parents (and at that time intending to do so indefinitely) feeling very uncertain about things. I cannot look back at that boy, watching the news with his parents that day, without smiling. Things for him were about to get much, much cooler.

I didn’t realise that at the time, of course, nor for quite some time after. Looking back, my time at Macclesfield College didn’t go well: I was trying to do A-Level psychology and ICT, two subjects I quickly found I was not suited to. I was also cocky and undisciplined, preferring to have a coffee than get on with work. I used my verbosity to mask my lack of understanding, and I think it’s fair to say I left there, two years later, much less cocky and slightly more mature, and with the D and E I deserved. Probably the best thing I learned at Macc was that I wasn’t as clever as I thought I was.

I then had a problem, though: what to do next? I had always envisioned going to Macc College for quite some time, supposing that it would offer me the same sort of institutionalized security school had. Yet it’s choice of courses for me was limited, so one summers day n 2003, I found myself googling local colleges. As I’ve said on here before, that was the real turning point, I guess. I had a choice – either I let my parents decide what to do with me, or for once show some initiative and do it myself. I vaguely remembered some of my school friends going to a place called South Cheshire College, so I punched that into google, and the rest of my life began.

Lyn and I were at the Southbank Centre last night. We went to se Hugh and his band, Saltwater Samurai, play there. It really was great to see them, and they did a great set. They are getting rave reviews, and Hugh is about to o on tour. Poppy was there too, but not Charlotte, who is at Bestival and whose birthday it is today (happy birthday charlotte). Photos of Charlie hang on the walls of my office; I can glance over at the montage she gave to me to commemorate our trip to Paris as I write. Last night, sitting talking to poppy and Hugh after the gig, in the centre of London, my wonderful girlfriend Lyn sat next to me, I suddenly thought back over the last decade. So much has changed, for me and the world, since that September day. I wouldn’t have been sat there had I not been to university; had I not been there, had I not met people like charlotte, I’d still be the timid, institutionalized little boy safe and secure up in Cheshire. But I was there, in the centre of London surrounded by friends, with the woman I intend to marry sat beside me. The version of myself that watched those terror attacks would not have believed he would one day do the type of things I do these days, or that one day he would settle down in south London with a woman and build an independent life for himself. Indeed I don’t think he believed he’d ever go to university, let alone leave home.

Where I am now sitting seems a million miles from where I was sat, watching the news ten years ago. The bay window of my parent’s front room looks out onto a quiet, leafy close of detached houses; the window of my office looks out onto a London street which, if not exactly busy, joins onto a bustling London road. If I turn left there I could head to Woolwich with it’s bustling Saturday market, stall-holders shouting out prices in thick, south London accents; if I turn right, I can go to Greenwich, with it’s fine park and naval college, or go up to the dome where I can get the tube into the centre of this sprawling, labyrinthine metropolis. Looking out of my study window as I once looked out of the bay window, I am struck by how different my life is now compared with how I thought it would be; yet I am also struck by the idea that, later, I will probably go out onto the street beyond it, into a city which once daunted and scared me, living a life which ten years ago I would have never thought possible.

At about midday today I switched the news on, and saw coverage of the Paralympics event up in Trafalgar Square. CaMoron was there playing tennis with Boris Johnson, and seeing that gave me an idea: what if I could repeat what I did in crewe and somehow get to talk to CaMoron? Now he’s prime minister, getting his ear would be an opportunity not to turn down. So with that I set off up into central London.

Of course, by the time I got there, CaMoron was long gone, but I felt I needed to look around anyway. There was a lot of cool stuff there including a Mountain Trike a new type of wheelchair designed to enable cripples to do a form of parcour. At one point, however, I was struck by sobering thought: in this country, people with disabilities are being hit y cuts to the benefits system, as well as cuts to the services we need to survive. Why should we perform like trained monkeys in the Paralympics next year for a country whose government threatens our very wellbeing? CaMoron and Boris will get praised for hosting the Paralympics, but many in the disabled community, to which most if not all paralypiads belong, might well starve due to their policies. That is surely not right? Why should we perform for such a government? I’m sure I’m not the first to propose such a thing, but wouldn’t a boycott of the Paralympics by both disabled athletes and specators be the clearest way for the community of disabled people to say no to the cuts the government is imposing upon us? Don’t get me wrong: Lyn will be one of those performing next year, and I’m incredibly proud of her for that, but I simply cannot silence these questions in my mind.

I just watched the first prime minister’s questions of the new season. You know, I think I had calmed down politically over the summer, cooled off, and had just about come to peace with having CaMoron for PM. Today, however, once again shouting at the screen, spitting bile and venom and the occasional insult in Klingon at the TV. I’m sure Lyn worries when I get so agitated, but I can’t stand the Tories. They were not, after all, quite elected, yet the way CaMoron behaves at the dispatch box as if he deserves to be there, his arrogance, the way he pretends everything is getting better when people are suffering, the way he blames everything bad on the previous government etc etc, just pisses me off. It’s not just CaMoron himself: the entire parliamentary tory party strike me as sickeningly arrogant. They’re the ones fucking up the economy, while protecting the bankers who got us into this mess in the first place, but they act as if they are better than everyone else. One lady Tory mp asked why CaMoron was listening to the lib dems so much. When I heard her say that, I must say I was absolutely filled with rage: her inference was that, since the Tories were the bigger partner in the coalition, their views alone should be heard. Is it not clear that such an arrogant, narrow-minded bunch of people have no place in power? Even putting aside their selfish, individualist, class-perpetuating ideology, I honestly believe that CaMoron and his party of arrogant bigots deserve to be expelled from government.

Today is not a day for going out. Today is a day for checking emails and Facebook, a day for writing blog entries and catching up on my reading. It is a day for getting on with my thesis, or perhaps even starting some new writing. It is a day for contacting school and asking whether they want me to help them out again this year. A day for looking forward to talking to my parents on skype this evening. Today is a day for drinking coffee while listening to Lyn compose. A day for wondering if chopper will pop by, then listening to the gossip he has for us. A day for settling myself on the sofa watching films. It is, above all, a day for looking out at the torrential rain wondering why autumn came so suddenly, while feeling cozy and warm and loved in here. Nah, today isn’t a day for going out.

I have some very important news today. Lyn is a musician and composer, and I’ve been hearing some of her best work come out of her studio recently. Her productivity puts me to shame. Anyway, one of her recent tracks, Overdone, will be played on radio Caroline this evening between 9 and11. You can listen at radiocaroline.co.uk. I cannot say how proud I am of my fiancee – this is one more step to the recognition she deserves as a composer. Plus, I’m also hoping this is another step towards fame, fortune and an Aston Martin!

We both had a wonderful day out in Greenwich Park yesterday, so that, together with Friday’s trip to Erith, mean that listening to the radio tonight will round off quite a wonderful weekend.

Having not put a picture on here in ages, today I think I’ll do something different and simply post one to commemorate a very pleasant afternoon Lyn and I spent today down by the river at Erith. I hope you like it.

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My brother previously posted a picture of a clown here to see whether my blog still had the capacity to show pictures. Unfortunately the picture he chose was bloody ugly, so I deleted it.

According to reports, up to 85 per cent of disabled people are fearful of cuts to their disability living allowance. While I do not want to say too much about our own financial situation, I think it’s fair to say Lyn and I share this concern. I certainly expected fears like this to arise, and they really are justified in my opinion. People with disabilities stand to be the hardest hit by the government’s cuts; you must ask yourself are they doing the right thing. When disabled people, like myself, are starting to worry about having enough food, or considering turning down the heat to save money, then surely it is time to ask yourself whether this is the right way to go.