It’s one of those days when, as a blogger, I feel obliged to pass comment on something that everyone remotely interested is aware of. Trump’s conviction was as inevitable as the Titanic hitting the iceberg, or brexit obliterating the UK economy: something which every intelligent person knew would happen has happened. The only worrying thing is, where this will take America culturally: we know that it is already a frighteningly divided nation, and it only remains to be seen how the MAGA fanatics, for whom Trump can do no wrong, will react.

Not that I have the faintest idea who Harry Styles is, but I think I’ll flag this story up, simply because it concerns Holmes Chapel. Holmes Chapel is a (very) small village in Cheshire, about seven miles from Congleton, where I grew up. I know it because I used to get driven through it twice a day, on my way to and from school. Now, it seems that a company is offering fans of Harry Styles walking tours of Holmes Chapel because he spent his childhood there. “Fans of Harry Styles have long obsessed over every detail of his life, his romances and his childhood. Now, Harries – as they’re known – are being offered guided walking tours of the Cheshire village where the pop sensation grew up.” Of course, I realise this won’t matter much to most readers (not that anything I write here ever matters that much) but at least it’s good to see Holmes Chapel finally getting put on the map.

I probably ought to admit that, when I first came across it twenty minutes or so ago, my gut reaction was to comment “Surely by the twenty-forth century, humanity will have outgrown such bullshit.” It was a Steve Shives video, purportedly about the presence of chaplains in Starfleet. Groggy as I was, the notion that religion could have any place in the future presented to us in Star Trek, or that any fan could be arrogant enough to try to insert their religion into it, was enough to send me into spasms of fury. But then I actually clicked on the link, and what I found myself watching was an outstanding piece of satire: funny, witty, yet perceptive. In it, Shives is essentially pointing out that, if religious figures existed in Starfleet, they would be defunct to the point that they would be aware of their total irrelevance, yet would probably be acting as if they still had something to contribute to society. It’s a great, well acted, well written monologue, definitely worth a watch. It’s also another example of how sophisticated this type of fan art is becoming.

In a strange way, hearing about the weird tradition detailed here earlier triggered a few memories. It’s about the traditional annual cheese rolling race in Gloucestershire, where people hurtle down a very steep hill in pursuit of a round piece of cheese. Utterly insane, but it looks like fun.

Behind my old special school, just beyond the playground, used to be two moderately-sized mounds made from all the soil excavated when the school was being built in the seventies. They were only a few metres high, but were once a major feature of the surrounding school landscape. When I was at school, before I was ten or eleven, I used to use a rollator: a walking frame with four wheels which I used to stabilise myself when I was walking. Rather than pushing it like the kind of zimmer-frames which you see elderly people using, I used to pull it as it had a bar which crossed at the back connecting it’s two sides. When I first started using it, it didn’t take my young self long to realise that, if I got going fast enough, I could then push myself up to sit on the bar and glide along on the momentum. I never went more than two or three metres, but it was great fun, rattling down the school corridors.

The problem came when I realised that it was even more fun to climb to the top of the mounds and whizz down on the back of my rollaor. As a youngster I thought it was awesome: every break time or lunch time, I used to clime the mound and glide down endlessly, like I was on a rollercoaster or a Ghostbuster aboard Ecto-1. The thing is, some sides of the small hills were steeper than others, so to begin with I just stuck to the less steep sides. When I eventually mustered up the courage, however, I decided it would be cool to try to ride down the steepest slope of them all.

The first couple of times, if memory serves, I was perfectly okay; but then I wanted to go faster and faster, until, quite inevitably, BANG. I remember tumbling off the walking frame, and the next thing I know I was opening my eyes with one of my fellow students standing over me. I had obviously fallen off the back of my walker and knocked myself briefly unconscious. Needless to say, that was the last time I ever played that game; yet watching all these guys in Gloucestershire rush down a hill after a rolling cheese strikes me as similarly foolish. Their hill might be larger and steeper, and my childhood game had nothing to do with dairy products, but I daresay they get the same thrill from doing something most people would deem utterly crazy.

Damn this saturated little island. One moment I can be trundling happily along the Thames path, starting to feel warm enough to wonder whether wearing a jumper today was a good idea. The next, the skies open and it’s raining so hard that I’m desperately looking for cover, trying my best not to let my powerchair control get too wet! It’s enough to make you think we were in the midst of a climate change crisis or something.

I just got in from my daily trundle (I got slightly lost in Thamesmead) and came across something fascinating. People can apparently now play some kind of James Bond-based roleplaying game where they walk about central London responding to text messages and answering clues. Calvin Dyson goes into detail about it here. It sounds like fun, and I might give it a try one day, although for the time being I’ll probably just stick to following my nose.

I just got home from the cinema. John suggested we watch the new Mad Max film, Furiosa, and I happily obliged. The thing is, I knew absolutely nothing about the Mad Max films. I had heard the name of course, but apart from that I hadn’t seen a centimetre of film. I had no idea what to expect.

What I found myself watching a couple of hours ago, then, was utterly bizarre, yet intriguing. Guys drove motorbikes like cowboys riding horses across some kind of dystopian Australian landscape; people fought twenty minute long battles involving giant lorries and pick-up trucks; characters were shown driving powerful vehicles almost constantly, without a petrol station in sight. Frankly, I didn’t have a clue what was going on, yet I found it strangely fascinating.

I left the cinema wondering what on Earth it was all about, but in a good way. I had just come into contact with some kind of strange, dystopian reality for the very first time, and I wanted to know more. How had that world come about? How could you explain such weird characters and creatures? Above all, what were the filmmakers trying to say? I now find myself itching to know more, as well as to watch the other Mad Max films. But then, isn’t that what all good art is supposed to do?

Needless to say, I’m already starting to get rather agitated about the election. I always get worked up over politics: whenever somebody I don’t agree with appears on TV, I often end up shouting at the screen or wanting to throw things at it. I’m told it’s connected with my emotional regulation being effected by my CP. It happened last night: I was watching the evening news when the leader of the group of vermin known as Reform suddenly appeared. I instantly found the sight so repugnant that I had to turn it off – I mean, why is the BBC giving airtime to such lying, xenophobic scum?

Last night, however, I found a decent solution. A few entries ago, I mentioned that I had started work on re-inserting all the missing links into my old blog entries. It’s a long, slow process: finding, copying and pasting a month’s worth of links takes me an hour or two, depending upon how many I used. I must admit, though, that it’s rather therapeutic and relaxing. Monotonous, yes, but I soon get the sense that I’m making progress; it also means I refresh my memory about all the things I’ve written here in the past. If I do a month or two a day, I know I’ll get there eventually. And at least it distracts me from all the bollocks currently in the news.

I suppose I don’t have to worry about selecting something to blog about today: the subject is obvious. Mind you, just as obvious is what I’m going to say about it. Long term readers will surely know what I feel about politics and how much I loathe the current Tory government. I just got back from a trip up to Westminster to see if I could find anything interesting there, but apart from a small parade by UN troops, I was quite disappointed. I can thus only say that I think the country needs to change its government more urgently than ever, and ask everyone reading this to do their best to ensure that happens in July.

To tell the truth, this morning was quite a difficult one.

As I mentioned yesterday, it would have been Lyn’s birthday. Dominik knew this too, so earlier today he asked me to take him to Eltham Cemetery, where Lyn’s ashes are. He had never been, and wanted to pay his respects. Of course I was happy to do so, so after breakfast this morning we went together along the footpaths next to the A2 to the cemetery. It had been a while since I had been, and to be honest I wanted to know what, if anything, had happened with Lyn’s remains, and whether her brother Paul had ever got in contact. When we reached the cemetery, however, we were told that they had not heard anything, and so had scattered Lyn’s ashes in the small woodland area there; Lyn never had any form of ceremony or funeral.

I think this saddened both me and Dom. We went to the area, and stayed there among the trees for a few minutes. It was deeply emotional – Lyn deserved so much more. I thought it appropriate to play this song I wrote for Lyn on my Ipad, and Dominik took this photo.

Naturally, we agreed that the best thing to do now would be to organise some kind of get-together or remembrance event, where we can invite all of Lyn’s old friends and give her the send-off she deserved. I suppose things like the pandemic have got in the way of such events over the last few years, but Lyn was such an incredible person who struck everyone she met with her zest for life, that I think everyone would agree that to deny her such an event would be something of a betrayal. After all, I think L would have wanted everyone to come together and listen to some great music.

I went for a trundle yesterday: a nice, long roll up towards Woolwich and then over the river to explore the regeneration around Silvertown. I think I’ve described before how such nose-following helps me to think and contemplate all kinds of issues. On and off recently, I have found myself captivated by gender again. As I wrote here a couple of years ago, although I still think and dream about it from time to time, I haven”t actually cross-dressed in quite a while. However, a couple of times recently I have found a single question quite intriguing: what if I had taken my dressing even further? What if, at the height of my cross-dressing ‘phase’ ten or fifteen years or so ago, I had acted upon my curiosity and chosen to transition? What would life be like now? How would I feel? What would my chest feel like if I had started to take hormones? What would getting dressed in mornings feel like? What would my relationship with my family be like? Would I have taken comfortably to my new role, or might I now regret it? I find such questions strangely intriguing, but I suppose I’ll now never know the answers.

Today would have been Lyn’s sixty-fourth birthday: I still miss her a great, great deal, and think about her daily. Lyn, of course, transitioned in the year 2000, when she was forty. Thinking about her yesterday, I realised something quite profound: Lyn probably had roughly the same desires and curiosities I do, but she acted on hers when I did not. Lyn chose to take the step into the unknown where I found it safer and more reassuring to stay put. What, then, is the difference? Were Lyn’s feelings stronger and more compelling than mine? Or could it just be that Lyn was braver than I am.

That is the conclusion I came to on my trundle yesterday. Lyn was a truly remarkable person; she had a kind of strength and wisdom I haven’t come across in anyone else. She chose to explore an aspect of her personality which I now seem to repress, the difference being that she had a fortitude I do not. Where I probably felt various social and cultural pressures to remain as I am, Lyn chose to ignore them, step into the unknown and smash down the very barrier I feared. That is, at least in part, why Lyn was such an incredible person; and why I’ll never stop missing her.

Imagine the scene: it’s late afternoon, and a man in his early forties is at home alone in his flat, working quietly. Suddenly he hears the doorbell ring, so he gets up and answers it. He opens his front door, only to see a salesman who immediately asks him “Are your parents at home?” Then, before the man can reply that his parents aren’t anywhere near, and that this was his flat, the salesman turns his back and walks off. Now, if that happened to you, wouldn’t you be irritated, or would it at least strike you as very, very weird?

Today is my Dad’s birthday, so first and foremost I want to wish him the best of days. My parents are currently away in Germany, obviously very much enjoying their retirement. Dad has always been a big fan of Dune; I remember seeing a VHS of the original film adaptations in the family video collection, before I had any idea what it was about. Now that I do though, I think Dad may appreciate this:

I have had a quiet, pleasant day: a peaceful walk around Canary Wharf, and then a beer in nearby Kidbrooke with my neighbour Eddy. Not much to blog about, really. However, part of me thinks that perhaps I should have gone up to the massive demonstration noted here. “Thousands of pro-Palestinian protesters marched through central London on Saturday, reiterating calls for a ceasefire in Gaza.” All in all, though, I was probably right to stay away.

It’s not that I’m not deeply concerned about what is currently happening in the Middle-East, or not appalled that so many people are dying unjustly; yet the conflict there has become so muddied, and opinions on either side have become so heated, that perhaps it’s best that I stay clear of such demonstrations altogether. I would only have wound myself up if I had joined such a demonstration; while most people on the march will be concerned by what is happening in Gaza, I also get the impression that there are rather disturbing anti-semitic components to them too. The world is becoming so fractured and divided that perhaps the best idea is to step back, go for a quiet trundle, and have a beer with your mate. Nonetheless, it worries me how angry and antagonistic people are becoming about this issue.

The massive news which I just came across this morning is that Red Dwarf is making (yet another) comeback. According to this Radio Times article, the old crew is making one feature length episode which will be cut into three. As a Red Dwarf fan, I certainly think it will be great to see Lister, Rimmer, Kryten and the Cat back; my brothers and I grew up watching this wonderfully anarchic sci-fi comedy, both contrasting with and complementing more serious stuff like Star Trek. Yet I can’t help thinking that we’ve seen so many reunions and comeback shows these days, from Picard to The Lord of the Rings, that this is just another attempt to scrape the bottom of the nostalgia barrel. After all, guys like Craig Charles and Chris Barrie are now so much older than when they first played Lister and Rimmer – surely they won’t have the same dynamic.

Further, towards the end of the article, there’s mention of some kind of Red Dwarf spin off show, set just before the beginning of the original series and involving entirely new characters. If that is indeed in the works, then I am very concerned indeed: Red Dwarf is about the last human alive, marooned millions of years into deep space, whose only company is a hologram of the bunkmate he hated, a strange being which evolved from his pet cat and a neurotic android. Making a show about anything other than that would not be Red Dwarf. This sounds to me like just another attempt to exploit a much loved franchise, while inadvertently yet inevitably ripping the heart out of it.

I have just come home and turned on the local London news to hear something which I find highly, highly problematic. London mayor Sadiq Kahn today took part in a conference on climate change organised by the Vatican and chaired by the Pope in Rome. Of course, I have no objection to climate change conferences – climate change is irrefutably one of the most urgent issues humanity faces – but why on earth are we allowing the catholic church to use it as a tool to bolster it’s authority? By organising this conference, and by inviting so many important people to it, the vatican is using one of the most pressing issues we face as a tool to boost it’s political and cultural relevance. It is framing itself as an international political body without anybody voting for it, and despite deriving it’s authority from a set of anachronistic myths and ‘traditions’. After all, since when did christianity give a zark about global warming? It is simply using one of humanity’s most crucial issues to try to regain it’s fading importance, something which I find utterly sickening. Religion has no right to intervene in such matters, or use them to gain attention and authority.

I really think everyone should watch this documentary about assisted suicide, which aired last night on the Beeb. To be honest I have been thinking about what to say about it all day, but ultimately I can only agree with it’s conclusions: legalising assisted dying in any capacity would open a very dangerous doorway, and sooner or later we risk people being coerced into ending their lives for more and more tenuous reasons. Ultimately there is a danger that non-terminally ill disabled people might be given the ‘option’ of ending their lives simply because they feel like a burden to the people around them. The presenter, Liz Carr, does a good job of presenting both sides of the debate, but when all is said and done the idea that people like me might be better off dead just because we have a disability is truly sickening.

I relish my life. Every morning I wake up knowing that the potential for something incredible to happen is infinite. I also wake up remembering all my friends who aren’t here any more, who lived their lives to the full in spite of profound disabilities. They taught me that life isn’t something to be thrown away, or opted out of just because you might no longer be able to do all the things you once did. That’s why I find the idea of assisted suicide so repugnant, and those who advocate it no more than self pitying cowards.

It’s fairly long, but if anyone, like me, is interested in the early history of the contact between aboriginal Australians and Europeans, I think this documentary is worth a watch. I came across it two or three weeks ago: while I must admit that it strikes me as a tad anti-European and anti-British, and overtly plays into an ‘Aboriginals are victims’ narrative, on the whole I feel it’s fairly well balanced. However, what caught my attention the most was the story of Yammerrawanne, one of the very first native Australians to be brought (some say kidnaped) back to Britain with Captain James Cook. Of course, I’ve been interested in Cook and his voyages for ages, but the detail I want to flag up this evening is that, when he died in 1794, Yammerrawanne was buried at Eltham Parish Church, a church about ten minutes away from my flat and which I pass every time I go shopping, to the pub or to get cash.

You may have been slightly surprised that I didn’t say anything here about the big Tolkien-related news which broke over the weekend. The word is that Peter Jackson, Fran Walsh and Phillipa Boyens are returning to the franchise in some capacity. That is indeed pretty massive news: I regard Jackson’s adaptations of Tolkien’s novels as absolute masterpieces, and the news that they could now be added to is very exciting indeed. Yet, to tell the truth, part of me is concerned. I don’t see where they can go from what they have already without effing it all up. Tolkien’s two main texts, The Hobbit and The Lord of the Rings, have been successfully converted into cinematic epics; what remains are much more fragmentary, scholarly texts which would be much harder to translate onto the big screen.

As pleased as I am to see Jackson back behind the camera, then, I still have grave concerns about where this is leading. As I wrote here last year, Tolkien’s work seems to be being reduced down to just another big, mainstream Hollywood franchise: as bold and epic as the initial adaptations were, the risk is that they will now just be rendered into generic pap as they are added to and added to in the hunt for money. While at least we can rest easy that Jackson knows what he’s doing (Andy Serkis is also apparently on board, which is awesome), for the most part I still wish that the first two trilogies had been left at that. What is left of Tolkien’s work won’t convert as easily into film, and the risk is that the result will be a generic, confused mess.

I must confess that I didn’t watch the entire Eurovision Song Contest last night. I needed to get to bed before it’s conclusion. There’s a Sainsbury’s nearby which sells Leffe, my favourite beer, and the two bottles of it I had went to my head. However, it seems to me that events like Eurovision are more important than ever before: such big, public events traverse borders and bring people together, at a time when humanity seems more divided than it has been in decades. There is a great deal of tension in the air, with horrific conflicts raging in both Israel and Ukraine. Of course, both were reflected last night, with Russia being excluded from the competition, and with many people feeling wary about whether Israel should have been allowed to participate too.

Yet, at the end of the day, such big international events are about bringing people together; they are about showing that we are just all one big community. Granted, there is an element of competition, and to a certain extent they allow communities to air their differences (booing one another, awarding points ‘strategically’ etc), but like the Olympics events like Eurovision are about coming together and having a great time. And at a point when we seem to be finding it harder than ever to trust our neighbours, both socially and internationally, I think that is more essential than ever, and why I think we need more events like it.

Ever since I first watched it, I have always dreamed that humanity was heading for the kind of future depicted on Star Trek: a humanity without borders, where we all worked together to advance humanity and explore space. I think this hits the nail on the head.

I think I just ought to record that today was my first jumperless day of 2024 – ie, the first day since last year when it was so warm outside that I didn’t need to wear a jumper. I’m not sure whether to be hopeful that this is a sign that summer will be here soon, or worry that it is a symptom of climate change.

Needless to say, I find this very exciting indeed. It was just featured on the BBC Breakfast program: the European Space Agency is currently training the world’s first amputee astronaut. “Former Paralympian John McFall is working with the European Space Agency on a ground-breaking study to see if it’s feasible for someone with a physical disability to live and work in space.” While some cynics may dismiss this as some kind of publicity or inclusivity stunt, I have to say I find it very encouraging indeed. It sends out a clear message that those of us with physical disabilities have just as much to human progress as anyone else, and that we can participate in endeavours like the exploration of space. And who knows where this might lead: could we one day see someone with a condition like cerebral palsy go up into the final frontier? Now that would certainly be awesome, although I suspect their dribbling might cause a few issues.

Today I think I ought to wish a happy birthday to two men who are, in very different ways, extremely dear to me. Firstly, when I got in this evening the internet reminded me that today is Sir David Attenborough’s 98th birthday. I think I’ve said here before that, as far as I’m concerned, Sir David is hands down the greatest broadcaster ever. There can’t be a single person in the UK who didn’t grow up watching the great man’s fascinating natural history documentaries, or hasn’t been utterly intrigued by the plethora of natural wonders he has revealed to us. We are all extremely lucky to have Attenborough as part of our mediascape, and should find the sheer body of work he has brought us over seventy years truly remarkable.

More personally but no less importantly, today is also Serkan’s birthday. Serkan is officially my Personal Assistant, but he is much more akin to a friend or even brother. Over the last four years he has come to my flat twice a day and washed, dressed and fed me; he has stood by me through thick and thin, including the darkness of the pandemic. I owe him a great, great deal, and hope he has the best of days.

Coming by from my trundle today, I had one another of those ideas which I think needs noting. I have been wearing a baseball cap whenever I go out for years: whenever I’m heading out, it’s now just a force of habit to just pull my cap on. The thing is, they tend to wear out or get lost fairly often, so over the years I’ve got through quite a few. I used to simply buy them off the shelf, but a month or two ago I found a store at the O2 where they would write any message I requested on to the front of a cap. It was a little expensive, but I liked the idea.

The first cap I bought from that shop was a black one with the words “Get out of my way or I’ll eat you.” I thought it would be cool to tell people that I was coming through and I needed them to stand aside, albeit in a humorous way and without actually needing to say anything.

After a while of wearing that cap when I was out and about though, I had another, rather more satirical idea. Taking a cue from all the idiotic Trump supporters I see on TV, I decided to go back to the shop at the O2 and this time bought a red cap with the words “Don’t let America elect that idiot again!” (The guys at the shop wouldn’t let me go with anything stronger than ‘idiot’.) At first I assumed it would just be my joke and wondered whether anyone would actually see or get it, although strangers have come up to me a couple of times and complemented me on it.

This afternoon, however, an idea for a third cap hit me: I was once again on the tube, having to wait for lifts being used by people perfectly able to use the stairs. All of a sudden I found myself absolutely itching to get a cap with the words “Use the frikkin’ stairs you lazy sods!” Then again, if I had such a hat I’d only be able to put it on when I want to use a lift, which could certainly make things complicated.

A cap where I could change the words using my Ipad? Now there’s an Idea.

While I don’t really feel like writing any kind of fulsome review of it right now, if you’re interested in watching films with interesting, innovative camera styles, go and watch Challengers. Essentially a romance about two guys and a woman who play tennis, what struck me the most when I was watching it in the cinema this afternoon was the way the film played around with conventional mainstream film: there were jump cuts, dolly zooms and shooting techniques I had never seen before. It really felt quite refreshing to see so many norms being broken, and mainstream film starting to adopt styles which it may once have regarded as too avante guarde.

I realise I don’t often mention it compared to the regularity with which I enthuse about James Bond or Star Trek, but I’m still a huge Lord of The Rings fan, so I was very sad to hear about the death of Bernard Hill yesterday. His performance as King Theoden in Peter Jackson’s epic adaptations of Tolkien’s novels was arguably one of the highlights of the film: I really think Hill captured the character of the chief of the Rohirrim – this mighty, noble, brave warrior king who could have stemmed from a Shakespearean tragedy or Norwegian epic saga – quite perfectly. More to the point, he was one of the great British actors, capable of delivering a hell of a lot of content with the slightest glance.

“I go to my fathers. And even in their mighty company I shall not now be ashamed.”

This was just too amusing for me not to nick!

I know I have only myself to blame for this, but a few months ago I asked my Australian friend Darryl to help me upload all the archived entries from my old blog to my new one. It annoyed me to have almost twenty years of writing no longer online. I didn’t know how to do it but Darryl did. Fool that I am, though, I sent him a pdf file rather than the html file I had, so none of the entries Darryl so kindly uploaded had any of their original links. This has recently started to annoy me, and I’ve been spending quite a bit of time trying to restore the links entry by entry (checking that they still actually lead somewhere first). The problem is, there are probably about two or three thousand entries, so it will take me an absolute age. If anyone reading this can think of a solution, I would be eager to hear it.

I was just browsing Facebook when I came across some news which made my jaw drop: Ben Elton has recently been hinting that we could see the return of Blackadder. When I read that headline, I was stunned. The final scene of Blackadder the Fourth is one of the most famous and moving in British comedy history – how could those characters be brought back, particularly after such a long time? But of course, reading a bit more, you learn that Elton is talking about doing a stage show rather than fifth TV program, rather like how John Cleese adapted Fawlty Towers for the stage. To be honest that makes much more sense, and I think such a show could work well, although it would be very strange indeed to see the great Blackadder being played by anyone other than Rowan Atkinson, or someone other than Sir Tony Robinson playing Baldrick.

Not that this will particularly interest anyone expect perhaps for my immediate family, but today I came across a little path with a very familiar name. I was out on my trundle in Woolwich, exploring back streets I had never been down, when suddenly to my right I caught sight of a narrow footpath called Swettenham Walk. I realise that that won’t mean much to most people reading this, but Swettenham is the name of a tiny little village up in Cheshire, just to the north of Congleton, where I grew up.  It’s barely more than a few houses, a church and a lovely old pub where I first worked out that ordering beer wouldn’t be such a problem after all. To suddenly come across it’s name amid the sprawling metropolis came as such a surprise that I instantly thought it worth noting here. I mean, hardly anyone has heard of Swettenham, so I’m very curious how  that little path got it’s name especially given, if memory serves, there’s also a Congleton Grove somewhere in that area too?

ADDENDUM: you can see the walk here, if you’re interested.

Breakfast today was a bit of an ordeal – things often are when I need to go somewhere new – but things ultimately ended well. I think I’ve mentioned here before that I currently don’t have a PA on Wednesday mornings, so I have to get myself dressed and breakfasted. It isn’t such a big deal: after a few minutes of struggling to get my shoes and socks on, I usually just pop to a local coffee shop.

Until recently, I used to go to costa up in Eltham. A couple of weeks ago, though, I was there with John when, towards the end of our visit, one of the staff members pulled him aside and told him that they didn’t like me coming there alone because of the way I sometimes choked slightly on my food. The way in which the lady spoke to John rather than directly to me, together with the implication that I am too messy or repugnant to not have someone looking after me, pissed me off to be honest, and I resolved not to go there again.

Fortunately this morning I remembered there is a Starbucks in Kidbrooke, just a few minutes’ trundle from my flat, so I set off there instead. Kidbrooke is one of those newly gentrified, stylish areas which seem to be springing up all over London. I had never been there before, but there was always the alternative of just buying some doughnuts from the Sainsbury’s next door. Going in, I felt strangely apprehensive and a little self-conscious: getting people whom I’ve never met before to understand what I need and want can be a bit difficult; even getting them to twig that I communicate by typing into my Ipad can take a few minutes. Today, though, hungry as I was, I persevered, selecting the toastie I wanted for breakfast and giving it to the guy at the check-out. I thought it was important that I didn’t make a mess or anything, and to give the right impression, given that I would probably want to go back there.

It was only after I’d found a table and got out of my powerchair that I started to relax a bit. The only problem was, when it came, the toastie was baking hot, dripping in melted cheese, and not easy for me to pick up: I could see it going everywhere, and getting a repeat of what happened in Costa. Whenever I need to feed myself in public I start to feel self-conscious, as though everyone is looking at me like some disgusting monster.

Today, however, that turned out to be entirely paranoia. In the end, I managed to eat my breakfast without a problem. After the usual initial hesitation, the staff turned out to be friendly and helpful. The coffee may have tasted a little different to the stuff I’m used to, but that was probably just down to the beans they use. Thus, given it’s so close, it now looks like I have a new place for breakfast.