I was just out in my chair. Lyn was still in bed, so I thought I’d leave her be and pop up to Stratford for a walk around the park. I wanted to ponder what to make of IDS’s resignation. On my way there, though, something strange happened. I shared the lift down to the tube with a mother and a pram. The baby in it could not have been more than a year old, but my eyes met with his, and suddenly I felt a strong desire to interact with him, care for him, look after him. There was a deep curiosity in those eyes: I got the feeling that I was the first wheelchair user he’d ever seen, and that he was wondering why this grown up needed a pram too. I felt the need to explain to him, play with him, be a father to him. I don’t think I’d ever felt such a strong paternal pull before; it was a wonderful, soft tender feeling – like snuggling up to Lyn under the duvet and feeling nothing but contentment. Yet the feeling was also tinged with sadness: I know I’ll probably never be a father – how could clumsy old me ever look after something so precious and delicate. That’s why the memory of what I felt in that moment troubles me, because I know that that desire, as strong and tender as it was, can probably never be realised.