Note to self concerning bus stops

Note to self: when passing bus stops in the chair, slow down, especially when a bus is aproaching. Pedestrians are prone to put their arm out in order to hail the bus, not noticing the wheelchair user, thus inadvertently clotheslining him. This chain of events may sound improbable, but first hand experience this afternoon demonstrated it indeed to be possible. No damage was sustained to either party; both were highly amused.

Lyn’s hidden talent

When I got home from school earlier I found Lyn in the room where I usually keep my chair. That was rather unusual: I don’t think,even after over three years of living down here, that I have seen her in that room before. It is small, and used for wheelchair charging and storage. Lyn was in there n order to clean it out, and that is where we have been for the last two hours or so.

You would be surprised at how much stuff there was in there, especially for such a small room. Truth be told I found myself amazed at the process: it seemed like Lyn’s whole life was in there, at least for the last ten years. A record of a remarkable person; a perso with a disability trying to make her own way in the world. There was everything in there, from Lyn’s old photo albums o books to electrical equipment. We decided to keep the precious or useful things, but, to some protest from me, we decided to get rid of much of it.

Lyn is not as muh a hoarder as I am, and one of the things she was going to throw away until I protested was a set of drawings. I had never seen them before, but they were by Lyn herself. They were remarkable images – vivid portraits composed of small lines. It was almost hard to believe they were by lyn, they were so vivid, so good. I don’t write that in respect to Lyn’s disability, but because I instantly saw she has an amazing talent that she for some reason hides. Not only is she a composer but a damn good artist too. I now plan to go through these pictures slowly – I on glimpsed them initially – but I firmly suspect I’ll be amazed. From what I saw, they were clear, vivid images, slightly abstract, perhaps, yet full of emotion. The question now is, though, how many more talents has Lyn been hiding.

Barack Obama is Dwayne Dibley

I just need – and I mean NEED – to point something out. Go here, scoot to around the one minute forty mark, and tell me who that reminds you of. The president of the united states is actually Dwayne Dibley! Who would believe it? The most powerful man in the world is actually Cat from red Dwarf’s alter ego.

‘Never forget that they lie, they lie, they lie’

A bit more about the closure of the ILF tonight, just to say that I think this shortish Guardian piece is worth reading. It goes into the dangers of it’s closure, and the blatant dishonesty of the government. Twenty thousand people stand to lose their livelihoods and independence, simply because the tories want to cut expenditure and tax. That isn’t just my spin, but,, as the article maks clear, is just a cold, hard fact. In short, people are losing their independence to satisfy the right’s desire for low tax, their individualism, their greed.

Wish I could help more

I went to the GAD meeting yesterday, for the first time in a couple of weeks, and saw the same lady I wrote about here. We both use communication aids, so we seem to get on. She greeted me with a big smile. I hope this is okay for me to write about on here, but I think her main problem is that she is isolated. She craves her independence (quite naturally) and resents her lack of control. She really wants to get out more, to be with people who respect her personhood, I think. She asked me whether I know of any other disability organisations which she could go to. I don’t, really, but next time I see her I plan to tell her about Onevoice, and perhaps try to put her in touch with my crip-activist friends. I came away wishing I could help her more, knowing I probably can, and vowing to at least try to do so. If anyone has any suggestions, please comment.

sitting in the sun tonight,

Lyn and I are sitting in the sun tonight, relishing a sun that shines so bright comfortable in our company after a long day

In our little garden, all daemons at bay

Sitting in the sun, enjoying a beer, banishing despair, anger and fear.

Across the table from the woman I adore

Out in the evening sun, who could want more?

Genuinely scared

The woman I love dearly is in the shower. She was hoisted into it by our PA Marta. A short while ago, Marta helped her eat, then go to the Loo. Marta also helped me eat, and finish dressing. She also helped us phone the council over concerns about a letter Lyn received yesterday. Without the support of people like Marta, we could not do such things; we cannot live as we do without our PAs. The level of support Lyn and I need is quite high, but according to this article, that support cannot now be guaranteed. Due to the abolition of the Independent Living Fund, ”Users are unlikely to receive the same level of funding after reassessment. This may undermine care packages and may mean that some users, such as those with particularly high care packages, may not be able to live independently in their own homes.” Never has a statement filled me with so much fear, so much worry: I love life with Lyn, in our little house together. It has already brought me so much jou, and I hope it continues to do so for a very long time. But a drop in support would mean institutionalisation, which would almost certainly mean the end of our life together. No more coffee together in the morning; no mor drinks in our little back garden; no more Bob Lawrence on radio Caroline; no more snuggling up at night. I hope to hell I’m worrying needlessly, but after what I’ve seen and heard today, I am genuinely scared.

Bomb detectors?

I’m sorry, but I really must record my amusement with this news story. I realise it is tragic, and that people bought the devices in good faith, but you would think anyone about to decade whether to spend thousands and indeed millions on something calling itself a bomb detector would look into the science behind it first. But no: James McCormick was today found guilty of selling fake bomb detectors, devices which he claimed the devices could bypass all forms of concealment, detecting drugs and people along with explosives, the court heard. He claimed they would work under water and from the air, and would track an object up to 1km (3280ft) below the ground. Those who bought them are furious, but one has to ask what they expected. Frankly it is like me going out and buying an expensive computer which it’s seller claimed could cook clean and wash up, but turns out to be a metal box. Now, who would Lyn be more angry at: the salesman, or me, the fool who bought it?

Looking forward to bed

I don’t have much to say tonight apart from how much I’m looking forward to bed. After school today I decided to pop up to the big shopping centre in stratford for another nose around. It’s easy enough to get to,, but by gad was that place packed. I soon remembered why we never go there. On the sunday I’d visited last, I had seen a shop I’d old myself I would re-visit when open. That’s why I popped up there today, but when I eventually refound the shop – it took a while – I found it ridiculously overpriced. I returned home tired and empty handed, save for fish and chips for me and Lyn, and a resolution to avoid such places, at least at peak times.

a theatrical afternoon

Yesterday was a great day: It was one of those days where I felt lucky to live here, in this great city, and to ave such a great girlfriend. Mind you, now that I come to think about it, what we actually did doesn’t actually sound all that much – we just went to the theatre and came back via the river, yet at the same time it was one of the loveliest afternoons I’ve had in a while.

Going to the theatre as actually John’s idea: he doesn’t work with us regularly, but when e does, he’s one of those PAs eager to go out and have fun. He suggested going to the theatre during the week, and we agreed it was a good idea. Mind you, I hadn’t heard of the play or the playwright, so I had no idea what to expect. I just saw it as an afternoon out with the prospect of a beer or wo afterwards, which was good enough for me.

However, it turned out to be much more: John took us to a small theatre in Soho, which reminded me instantly of the theatre spaces at university: small and intimate. I decided I liked it. The show started shortly after we had taken our places, and what unfolded before us in the following ninety minutes turned out to be a complex, absorbing narrative. The Life and Sort of Death of Eric Argyle was only written last year, and as such is a highly contemporary piece. It reminded me of the work of my friend Ricardio, I suppose, except that in this play the narrative had slightly more structure. That is not to say it was absolutely liniar – in fact I found it rather confusing, so much so that I bought the text after the performance. There were one or two things I think I missed, so I look forward to reading the text. It will also probably teach me a few things about writing, as it seems to intertwine prose and script in a way I haven’t come across. Watching it yesterday, my mind was intrigued, at times bored, suddenly stimulated, bored again, and in the end captivated. In one sense the play is about writing itself, and spoke to me directly as a bogger. In short it was everything one would want in a play, and it whetted my apetite to go to the theatre more, as well as reminding me how much I need to get back into fiction writing.

We came back via the river. Our initial plan was to go up into town that way, but we had left it too late and took the tube instead. it was on the boat that I wrote yesterday’s poem, and then, after eating at the dome, we were soon back here, and shortly after that I was curled up in bed.