Lyn and I went over to Bromley yesterday. I don’t recall ever going there before: it’s quite a way, but worth it for the shopping. Getting there took three busses. Because only one wheelchair can go on a bus at a time, I set off before Lyn, my travel instructions firmly noted on my Ipad. It wasn’t that hard: the 422 to Royal Standard, the 202 from there to Lee, and the 261 from there to bromley – nothing any Londoner would worry about.

The incident that got me down a bit happened as I came to get on the second bus. Things had gone reasonably well until then. I was at the bus stop, and saw the 202 approaching, so I put my hand out. It stopped and the doors opened. It was then I noticed that thee prams were in the wheelchair space. The driver put his arms up in a reconciliatory gesture, saying there was nothing he could do. He was about to drive on, but I stuck to my guns. That space was hard fought and won by my disabled forebears; it is a wheelchair space, not a pram space. Besides, I needed to get to where I was going – the next bus along would probably have Lyn on it.

I protested to the driver, who looked behind hm. The three mums were not happy,, but to my horror, they thought they had to get off the bus so that I could get on. I didn’t mean for that to happen – my need to get somewhere doesn’t outstrip anyone else’s. I only wanted them to budge up, or perhaps fold their prams.

I got on anyway, and tried not to feel guilty. After all, was I not well within my rights? I thought I was sticking up for something I was entitled to, wasn’t I? I told myself I needed to get to where I was going, and that a bit of ruthlessness was sometimes necessary, or else I’d never get anywhere. Why, then, did I feel so ashamed, as if I’d been selfish?