I just got back from the Onevoice weekend in Lilleshall, which was wonderful, and indeed life-affirming. To see all the kids use their vocas in harmony, happily chatting away is truly great. I will tell you all about it tomorrow, when I’m less tired.

I certainly hope, however, that this will be the first of many such trips! I hope, too, that these young people got as much out of it as I did.

this makes me very angry. do such people even read the book. how can this preacher say this? potter is brringing kids back to reading, and these religious idiots want to repress it, like they did in the middle ages. its religion that is evil

This time a week ago I was at uni helping out on a taster day for a local school. It was a nice day, and things were going rather well. The G8 leaders were up in Scotland, trying to deal with the problems of Africa (which I very much care about. I hope people do not forget about Africa in the middle of this. Here’s a thought perhaps the Americans did it to distract us from helping Africa. Just kidding). I was looking forward to a long, good summer – plenty of books to get through, plenty of writing to do, plenty of films to watch.

I am not saying this summer won’t be good. Yesterday, I went to Stratford upon Avon. I had wanted to go since I first properly encountered William Shakespeare properly aged 14. before then, we had simply been given overviews of the plot when studying the bard, so it was at 14 or 15 when I firs encountered the ext, and, philologist that I was, I lapped it up. It seemed exceptionally beautiful to me. From that time on, I had wanted to visit Stratford, and yesterday I did. Unfortunately, I found the place quite a grockle trap, but a pretty grockle trap. The Avon is a beautiful river, much like the Isis, with mighty theatres on one side end parkland on the other. Time and money were too short to go to any plays (besides which, it was too hot to go to a stuffy theatre), but, crowds or no, we had a pleasant few hours there.

Thus, my summer is not wrecked by last week’s atrocities, and nor is the spirit of this country. Judging by the masses of people I saw yesterday, England is open for business as usual, as it was in the summer of 1942, and as it was almost 400 years ago, in 1606, when the bard was where we were yesterday, walking by the same river, I imagine.

And as it will probably be in 400 more years.

no prises for guessing who directed this. It looks incredibly similar, stylistically, to lord of the rings. It reminds me of two poems written by the same hand, and I take it as evidence for the auteur model of film production. Even so, it looks cool, if derivative in terms of mise-en-scene

It’s too hot to write much. My arms are complaiing more than usual, saying ‘lets just go watch telly’ anyway, I was just over at comingsoon.net, and noted that Johnny depp is due to play willy wonka in Dahls classic. Now, although its kid’s trash, and hardly arthouse, I’m a fan of the original, even though I maintain it was inspired by something only found legal in Amsterdam, which was part of it’s charm. I’m always wary of remakes – they’re never as good as the original, bearing the taste of cheap copies. Nevertheless, I’m still in my post lord of the rings optimistic mode, so we must wait and see

spare a thought for these poor, poor people. wouldn’t it be est just to let them pass on?

I live n the north of England. It’s quiet here, and the only remotely newsworthy event is that I have missed breakfast. However, currently my thoughts are in the capital. I’ve been in London several times, and while I cannot profess to know it well, I rather like it. Mum’s from London, as is Bill, my PA. I think about my friends down south, and this morning I read Lisy Babe’s blog, whose account I found rather frightening as it made the tragedy seem more personal somehow.

There’s a part of me that wants our country to seek out and destroy the culprit, kind of a ‘Nobody fucks with us’ attitude’. But this is base. But we are British, and revenge is not cricket. I am proud of the act that Londoners are going about their lives, as usual. We are indeed a resilient bunch, as the blitz showed. At the same time, there was something Churchillian in tony Blair’s speeches after the attack: a woeful resignation, yet a strength.

There is little doubt that our involvement in the war on terror caused this, especially Iraq. But approve or not – and I certainly didn’t – we better pull together, screw our courage to the sticking place, and remain defiantly British.

peeraps today, posting the following might be prudent.

[quote=”Mattie stepeneckurl:http://www.oprah.com/tows/pastshows/tows_past_20011101_b.jhtml”%5DFor Our World We need to stop.

Just stop.

Stop for a moment…

Before anybody

Says or does anything

That may hurt anyone else.

We need to be silent.

Just silent.

Silent for a moment…

Before we forever lose

The blessing of songs That grow in our hearts.

We need to notice.

Just notice.

Notice for a moment…

Before the future slips away

Into ashes and dust of humility.

Stop, be silent, and notice…

In so many ways, we are the same.

Our differences are unique treasures.

We have, we are, a mosaic of gifts

To nurture, to offer, to accept.

We need to be.

Just be.

Be for a moment…

Kind and gentle, innocent and trusting,

Like children and lambs, Never judging or vengeful

Like the judging and vengeful.

And now, let us pray,

Differently, yet together, Before there is no earth, no life,

No chance for peace.

September 12, 2001

Matthew Joseph Thaddeus Stepanek[/quote] sacharrine, yes, but relevant

Things just get better and better. I have a great life at uni, a great family; I’ve had a top year, better than I can ever imagine. And now, London has won the 2012 Olympics. This is great news. However, I now have an overwhelming temptation to gloat at the French. I won’t be the first to note that the 200th anniversary of the battle of Trafalgar, another occasion where we beat the French, was this week, and the Olympic celebrations are going on in Trafalgar square as I write. Oh, what a pretty coincidence?

Seriously though, commiserations to our French, Spanish, American and Russian rivals. I think the Olympics will be great for London (hopefully, it will get them to do something about disabled access to public transport) and the whole country. I only hope we can build the stadium in time. The builders need to take less tea breaks.

Nice one London.

It is very hard not to be xenophobic sometimes, but currently both the Americans and French are peeving me. Ok, certain sections of American and French people are pissing me off, like their leaders. I think the French are being rather selfish with reference to the cap, but I fear I do not have sufficient knowledge to properly comment on it. I just know what I’ve heard from the media.

Thus I will return to my old standby of getting rat at the Americans. Would you believe some of them are saying we should forget about Africa, with the grouchy old cripple claiming that most countries in Africa are socialist, and thus deserve their fate. Such cementers say we should leave Africa alone. What? Not only is that inhumane, but utterly stupid! It is the exploits of the western powers that got Africa into this mess, and therefore we have a right to get them out. Moreover, we will not be doing this by simply throwing money at the problem, but buy doing things like cancelling debt, which will help Africans sustain their selves.

Worryingly, the American government seems to be burying their head in their sand over such issues. This morning, I read this guardian article about how the US government will not sign anything looking like Kyoto, because it might hurt the american economy. Well, boohoohoo. A few fat stupid men in Stetsons won’t get so much money. Well, I say fuck them! To hell with these selfish pricks in their ivory towers. The world needs to change, and fast. I was speaking to Mum yesterday on the probability of a third live aid concert in twenty years, as predicted by Kate over IM: mum pointed out that it was entirely contingent on our western world staying stable, and the chances are, it won’t. pretty soon, we agreed, there will be an almighty bust up over fuel – we’re talking about the end of the world as we know it. Mind you, they said that of the cold war, and that fizzled out.

The point is, climate change is a reality, and we must take action. If, however, many Americans have mindsets such as those held by denny wilson then I must admit I see little hope for humanity.

Make poverty history. Go here

There are days when, for all it’s savageness, humankind impresses me. Days which will live on in memory for centuries. I really feel today is such a day. The day when humanity came together o do something great. Perhaps it is naive to pin much hope on live 8 – after all, live aid did not seem to have a great effect – but I am a naive kind of person. If the events around the world today change the fortunes of Africa, then it is all good.

I have been wondering about one thing recently though: how can music do this? How can music change the world? As a student of film, I know music is a major part of mise-en-scene: it commands the mood of the film. A few seconds of a simple series of notes tells us that 007 is about to make something explode; it is the imperial march that gives vader such an air of ominousness; and so on. Music adds another dimension, not only o film, but to life.

It is everywhere we go – we even play it in our internal monologues. On Wednesday, I was at my friend Robert’s place, playing music with friends. We had invited two members of a band from Zimbabwe, who had been playing at artscool, round, and we just jammed. I was given a shaker to play, and it was cool, listening to music, and singing. My friend rich, I discovered, is an excellent drummer,; there were a couple of people playing acoustic guitars; Simba was on the thumb piano; Rob and I were on shakers. That moment, when Rob’s small house filled with music, was utter bliss.

Music is truly powerful stuff. It can fill a soul with joy. It is also a force, unto itself, and one which sir Bob Geldof has chosen to fight poverty. And you know what? I think it is up to the task.

This week I’ve been helping at the first mmu artscool. This is where local schoolchildren come in to the Crewe campus to perform and do all kinds of art-based activities. Although I now feel knackered, it has been a privilege to work on such an event. Over the last two days there have been something like 1500 schoolkids on campus with about 200 performers and artists. I was one of about 50 student helpers, who are all a great lot. I have never seen so much vibrancy – there were kids there whose age ranges from 5 to 18, from mainstream and SEN. One of the best outcomes is that I’ll be working with (among others) Springfield school this autumn. Springfield is a local special school, which means I can better acquaint myself with the special school system, which will help me be a better campaigner for incklusion.

Well, I’m shattered. Goodnight all.

[written yesterday, but my site was down]

perhaps school would have been cooler if we had been taught to play this, although I probably would have needed the school nurse more often.

I remember a night when dad left my room at university and I cried. I had always feared being away from home – always! Hebden green, the school where I was educated, has a residential department, where kids can stay for up to four nights a week, to give parents respite. I remember bawling my eyes out each and every time I had to stay there – it wasn’t as if resi was bad, just that I missed my home. Home was where I was most comfortable, safe and sound. However, in retrospect I realise I was being totally selfish – looking after me would not have been easy for my parents, at a time when dad was busy with European quality awards and my brothers needed their fair share of attention. I knew that my parents needed one or two nights free of having to spoon feed me, wipe my butt and so on, but I couldn’t give them it. Moreover, there were children half my age at residential, coping quite happily; in short, I was immature.

This fear returned that first night, when my father prepared to leave me at university. Then, the tears returned, so much so that dad later said he nearly took me home. But we both knew that this was not an option – I knew that I was going to have to leave home sometime, so I stayed. I stayed in my room all evening, as, until then I did not know I could go outside alone, without permission from anyone. What if I fell? What if there were bandits?

Permission, if it was needed at all, came via web conference the next evening. Dad said it should be fine for me to walk around campus alone: ‘why not, Matt?’ and so I did,. That day was a Wednesday, and I walked into brandies, found the disco in full swing, and never missed home again.

This year I have flourished at university, not in the sense that my brothers have, but then they did not have my fear of going anywhere alone. I thought I needed a PA to go anywhere, as there were too many ‘what if’s, and so I didn’t go anywhere, but stayed in doors, on my computer. Yet this year has changed that fundamentally. My horizons have been thrust wide open, and it seems as though I can do anything, from watching busa football matches to going to the Opera. I have learned more than ever, but I have also lived more than ever.

What strikes me is the contrast between then and now. I am no longer timid and shy, but feel like I am free. It is as though there was something restraining me, to use an over-used metaphor, but this has been lifted. And so we finally get to my point..

This restraint was, I think, imposed by school. Over a decade of going o that safe, insular place will do such things. Towards the end of my education there, school installed high fences around perimeter in the light of the dunblane tragedy, but this had all the appearance of a fence around an enclosure in a zoo, rather than a defence against attack. In other words, school resembled a prison, or an institution, and the fence’s purpose was to keep students in. the fence can be seen as symbolic – school was repressive, it’s walls deceptively bright. Children there were, and are, educated in name only, and the thirst for knowledge was not fostered. Kids who could not read, aged sixteen, were simply fobbed off as having learning difficulties, and my parents had t push to get me decent GCSEs. As an aside, it was my parent’s pushiness that got me on the path to university, their insistence that a D was not good.

However, without my parents’ help and bloody minded insistence that I did A-Levels, I would have languished. My classmates did. I am not sure how well they could read, but each time one of them read aloud – baring Michelle – it was rather slow. If memory serves, maths only extended up to, say, Pythagoras. Mind you, I always found maths difficult and dull, so I did not try. It was only when I failed maths, (i.e., got a D), and my parents got me a tutor, that mats got to be interesting. To put this in context, while, at school, we were studying frogspawn, offer the dinner table, mark, two years my senior, was explaining to us that time sped up and slowed down. Thus, without my parents insistence that I should be properly educated, as befits the son of a middle class family, I would not be at university, but,, in all probability, in some sheltered accommodation.

Indeed, not many former special school students who complete their ‘education’ in such places end up in university. Of course, a great many disabled people do end up in higher education, but most attended inclusive schools. A notable example of this is Disability now’s Kate Caryer, whom I have had the fortune to meet. Moreover, the statistics bear this out: in the 95/96 term,, just 16% of year 11 pupils achieved A* to G grades at GCSE in special schools, compared with 93% in mainstream (Thomas, 1997). No doubt the residual 84% were fobbed off as having learning difficulties, and I have little doubt that, had it not been for my parent’s bloody mindedness, I might have been among them.

Not only do I blame school for my educational stiltedness, but my social stiltedness. Admittedly, my parents had their hand in this, as did my general wimpy disposition, but school had a major hand. Post-16 students were not allowed off school grounds during school hours, and there had to be a teacher on duty to go into the playground. Thus, I was never out of shouting range from people I had known from infancy. This was not, of course, as repressive as some schools or institutions – some of which see o treat kids like cattle – but I was repressive enough. In short, it was intended tom mould students into good, quiet, sheltered accommodation inmates.

This must end. I want more students to feel that which I felt the moment I set foot in brandies, or the moment Alan Faire took the podium on my first ever lecture. According to Speechless (Crosley, 1997) many people described as ‘severely retarded’ [sic] simply have communication problems, and I would maintain that my school friends could not read, not because they had learning difficulties, but because they were not motivated enough. Take, for example, Tom, apparently illiterate until it came to his first love of football, whereupon he could read the football scores as well as anyone.

The next obvious question is ‘What tells us he would do any better in mainstream?’ the answer is that he might not, but mainstream is far more engaging than any special school, where one mused sometimes which of your friends would die next. Just as I came alive when I first entered university, if schools would just find ways to accommodate all children, all children – able bodied included – would benefit. As Kikabhai (2002) wrote, ‘A wider implication and consequence of segregated education, as pointed out by Vlachou (1997:15-16), stated that, ‘segregated education is a major cause of society’s widespread prejudice against disabled people.’

‘Just’ being the operative word. Major adaptations will need to be installed, but this can, and indeed must, be done, for all of the above reasons. One could, of course argue that it would be simpler to improve educational standards in special schools, but I would counter by saying that the problem is innate. If one has a class of, say, eight disabled pupils, each requiring intensive academic help with only two members of staff to help them, the overall educational gain is less than that of a class of twenty with one disabled person with his own dedicated learning support assistant. Only when I entered a mainstream classroom, with Heather sat by me taking my notes, did I really start to learn. Thus, until we implement similar systems for all disabled students, as befits their needs, very few will experience that which I have this last year.

I hate the frog. frog must die! luckily, bear agrees.

I laughed my ass off when I saw it. pure genius

been feeling unwell for a few days, causinng a lapse in entries. however, I’m on the mend, so more ill-informed ramblings soon

Tonight I’m frustrated. I have felt something that I hoped I would be rid of: I miss television. All year I’ve been happily going without telly while at university – after all, I have better stuff to do than watch TV, 90% of which is dire – but I was out today and suddenly I felt a pang!

The cause of this pang was, believe it or not, an entire continent. I have only once stood upon Africa, during a very brief visit to Egypt in 1993, but the place captivates me. To me the place is full of wonder and beauty and adventure, and I feel myself drawn to it. I am a huge fan of Michael palin programmes, and especially enjoyed reading the Africa part of ‘Pole to Pole’ where the adventure goes into the centre of the continent, that which Conrad famously termed the ‘Heart of Darkness’. I have a strong desire to see the Murchison falls, the Serengeti, the Nile and mighty Kilimanjaro.

I also really love the natural history programmes of David Attenborough. His programmes also help capture Africa for me – a place crammed full of wildlife, and the birthplace of the genus homo. His programmes also make my feet itch. they imbue me with the need to seek wilderness, although an electric wheelchair, as I learned on Sunday, is not ideally suited for this.

However, it was neither Attenborough or Palin who caused my sudden pang – the sudden desire to have access to a TV set during the week. It was Bob Geldof. I was in waterstones today, and I caught sight of a book on the best seller list. The title was ‘Geldof in Africa’, and the very cover with all its brightness and shiny texture, made my feet itch again. I felt the sudden, quite irrational urge to find some way o watch this programme.

On the one hand, I know this is silly. It’s only TV – a cultural construct which, according to Marxists like Althuser, is controlled by the bougiousie and innately represses the proletariat. In other words it’s a form of mind control. On the other hand, I am probably never going to see Africa myself – you must be not only able bodied but superhuman to take in the continent in it’s entirety. Watching this programme and those like it may be my only real chance to explore the world.

This is why I aim upset that this programme airs on weekdays, when I am at Uni. Oh well, I suppose I can always buy the DVD.

I just read this on bbc news. It’s official, the world is mad. I give up!

I’m a sucker for paths. I love to explore, and I love to follow paths. I’m not sure why – if I see a path, leading off into the fields, I just have to follow it. I am just imbued with a terrible wanderlust which urges me to see what’s on the other side of the hill.

The problem with paths is mud. They’re deceptive: you’re trundling along n the wheelchair, and all of a sudden the path gets narrow and steep. If you’re a careful driver, as I try to be, these shouldn’t be a problem. The real difficulty starts when you get stuck in mud. You’re wheels whirr, you push and pull, but your chair doesn’t budge. It is then that you need help, which means getting out and going to find someone.

This means going through all the rigmarole of meeting new people. First you have to get their attention (they will try to ignore you if u have cp). Second, you have to prove that you are in fact sentient and ‘all there’, and not an escapee from an institution. Third, you have to introduce them to your communication aid, which eighty percent of the time amazes people. Finally, you have to tell them the problem. Thereafter, threes much heaving and shoving, and a lot of damage done to the chair,, and often you’re on your way.

Only, today was different. Today I managed to enlist the help of an off duty police man, who despite my affirmations that everything was ok now I’m out of the mud, decided to walk me to the local station. I narrowly avoided him calling dad, which would be a major embarrassment, and he gave me some water and I went on my way.

No more driving on mud, methinks.

my mate luke b has just made me aware of a site offering advice on getting blue badges without a disability. how cynical. I really loathe these jeremy clarkson types who think they have a right to park anywhere just because they have a fast sportscar. Meanwhile, us crips have to park at spaces far away, usually without enough room to comfortably open the door! it really gets my goat. scroll down for a link to said site. you may need to refresh.

anyway, we all know what these clarkson types are compensating for…

It would of course be remiss of me to go to bed without mentioning that it is athe biirthday of a very special lady whom I love dearly.

have a great birthday mummy! I love you

Today I’mm up early as its gonna be a busy day. I’m gonna help out at a school taster day – what? these guys want ME to help THEM? okay,, I’ll try, but dont blame me when the screaming starts….

Thus, in the best blogging tradition, I’m going to leave you all with a rude joke, sent to me by my friend eunice A blonde walks into a pharmacy and asks the assistant for some rectum deodorant.

The pharmacist, a little bemused, explains to the woman they don’t sell rectum deodorant, and never have.

Unfazed, the blonde assures the pharmacist that she has been buying the stuff from this store on a regular basis and would like some more.

“I’m sorry,” says the pharmacist, “we don’t have any.”

“But, I always buy it here,” says the blonde.

“Do you have the container that it came in?” asks the pharmacist.

“Yes,” said the blonde, “I’ll go home and get it.”

She returns with the container and hands it to the pharmacist who looks at it and says to her, “This is just a normal stick of underarm deodorant”.

Annoyed, the blonde snatches the container back and reads out loud from

the container………

“TO APPLY, PUSH UP BOTTOM.”,,,

the sunday times has really got me going today with a patently, blatently misguided and stupid feature on special scchools (not available online – see sunday times 12 june 05, p.13). it speaks out against integration. well, duh. of course integration isn’ working. when done properly, integration can and will work, no matter what some stupid paren might say. however, It mustt be done correcctly, and all students must be supported as their needs dictate. the fact that some kids might be having a tough time, and some particulrly stupid parents may want to mollycoddle their kids, is no reason to conclude that incusion doesn’t work. incclusion is a damn sight ccheapeer and academiccally more beneficial than sennding childdren to some dead end cripple ranch whicch innately fail kids. this article also favours loccking people with learning difficulties into homes – the writer of this has no idea of her subjecct.

I just read this, and I don’t understand. Lady warnock is against keeping premature babies alive, but pro inclusion. just whose side is she on?

click here and here. rather cool

One of the major problems with modern plays is that it often renders a work inaccessible to a lay audience. This is, of course, equally valid of other art forms, especially painting: what is seen by the lay person as a bunch of lines on a canvas by the lay person may be highly symbolic to those purporting to be experts.

I was at a student production of a play called ‘the devil applying cosmetics’ this evening. It was by the catapult production company – a group of fourth year drama students here at MMU Cheshire. They were recently asked to take their production to the Edinburgh festival this year, and I can see why. These guys could act! never mind that a lot of the time they were talking garbage, they were talking garbage with such passion that I was transfixed for the whole eighty minutes.

The question of ‘what was it all about’ is a particularly good one: it was about a group of actors, putting on a play, but it was also a critique of gender roles. The language use had two definite time periods – Elizabethan and modern, with the actors sliding effortlessly between dialogue of both periods. The action revolved around a large bed, about which the audience were sat with the bed In the centre and the eating along the four edges. Thus the audience were very close to the action. The cast – about 10 strong, each playing multiple roes, swirled around, on and under this bed, moving at random from scene to scene often independent of each other. At times, the curtains were drawn on the huge four poster, and pictures projected onto them. Costume changes were frequent, in front of the audience. In short, I have no idea what most of it was about.

However, the energy with which all this was delivered was quite invigorating. I am almost certain it was supposed to be comic – either way, I found it funny but managed tot contain my titters. I’m sure this play will do well when it heads up north this autumn. Either that, or you’ll have a lot of confused Scots people.

Oh, I better mention too that I had a seat especially ‘reserved’ for me. A couple of people in it had asked me to come along, and had saved a place especially. Thanks, guys!

If only bush would heed stuff like this

these robots speak the tfruith about web life

Its been a slow, dull few days. dont get me wrong – going to london to see yeaya is always cool, but the problem is I have been feeling restless for the past few days trying to sort out a trip to lilleshall, waiting for orders to arive etc. the problem is, there’s so little to do around hre now tht lectures are over. I’m bored, and when I feel like this I go quiet, so much so that bill sas I have mild dwepression.

rbably not – I’m currently sorting Lilleshall ouut, my paackage is due to arrrive thursday, when I will be meeting becca for an afternoonr, with luck. ho hum, chin up.

This is why bush should be removed from power immediately. I can’t believe this.

The brandies discos aren’t on till next term, so me and bill went for a drive up into the hills this evening, and strangely, I preferred it. we headed for the hills behind macclesfield, and thence through the stream-lined valleys to congleton, and thence home. tthe scenery, as tthe sun set, was quite amazing, and a beer in a country pub will always eat a larger in the union bar. bliss

I gotta see this and no more picking fights with LJ users. bad medicine.

For some time now I have found myself getting rather annoyed at people who call their livejournals Blogs. I’m not sure why, but it irritates me: Livejournal.com is rather cliquey (to use the word of my writing tutor) and most users are attention-whores. MOST. Livejournals are not blogs, but livejournals.

Perhaps I’m too snobbish about having my own domain. After all, I’ve been recently writing lj-ish entries, but I keep intending to write a proper article or two. The essential motive behind Blogging is the same motive as keeping a livejournal, so the only reason to differentiate between the two is pure electronic snobbishness.

On then other hand, the two are quite different. Livejournals are one site – a network of pages which no one contributor owns. However, a blog is owned by the sole writer, who can do anything with it. To don my pseudy hat for a moment, the reader is entering into the domain -pun intended – of the blogger, and thus has to show deference to the writer. it is he who has power over a blog, after all. Therefore blogs are separate entities unto themselves, rather than being a mass of often poorly written junk. Hence, even though there not be much different in content, there are subtle differences between the two, and it is indeed fair to differentiate between the two.

I’m currently watching Johnny Vagas arse about with all the zeal of a campaigning politician on his own show. I’m dispairing at the state of brittish t v;. well, if a fat slob can get his own show, then so can a crippled slob. theres hope for me yet. wish michael palin will go traveling again. I’m looking forward to the next david attenborough series, life in the undergrowth, out 2006.

up early tomorrow. goodnight.

Avryl LaVigne – complicated has just started to play on my mp3 player, instantly taking me back to new York, and breakfast with mark and Luke. This morning, despite a pair of sore knees, I feel better than I have in a couple of days. Of course, this is entirely due to last night, and the match wherein Liverpool made the comeback of all time! I was watching it in the bar: at half time, I naturally thought it was all over, but obviously the fat lady didn’t feel like singing.

I was thinking about not going last night – in the swell of the disco, I had very little chance of communicating with anyone sans lightwriter, but I decided to go as it was the last disco, and I felt like getting blotto. I felt lazy, so I stayed in my chair all evening, except when Liverpool scored that third glorious goal. When I simply had to get up and dance! My dance – a weird, spastic twirl – went well the first time but at the end of the evening, after another pint or two, I tried it again, fell, and promptly cracked my knees. Luckily, I was surrounded by friends, who helped me back into my chair.

Its funny, even without the means to communicate, my friends – just about everyone on campus – still seem to adore me. They seem to think I’m clever, probably due to the hawking “Crippled genius” effect. Either way, I am truly happy, hurt knees or not.

Two nights ago, I was feeling down. Quite desperate in fact. Lying In bed on Tuesday night, some words came to me, a half remembered song: “When you walk, through the storm, hold your head up high, and don’t be afraid f the dark.”

An omen?

Not much time to blog now, having been to the football part to end all football parties (yay Liverpool!). In sum, i have been working on videos using windows movie maker, whichh is fun, but tiring. Will write more on this soon. nite all.

It’s interesting to note that communication aids have not only a physical advantage, but a psychological one, and that the loss of ones communication aid can have a profound effect. My reading o n the internet tells me that, time after time without access to communication aids people have been condemned as having severe learning difficulties; my fear is, without my lightwriter, which broke over the weekend, people will think less of me. With it, I can make the entire football team laugh, take morning coffee with my tutors, tell rude jokes, but without it, I am stuck with a monosyllabic “hi” to friends, lacking the confidence to do much else.

Of course, this is not always the case – I have a letter chart and the stubbornness requisite to make myself understood, and I know peoples opinions of me will not diminish just because I can’t communicate. Trish and Dave still welcome me at their table, but the footballers may be a problem. Either way, I’ll get by, often with help from Esther who is now as accustomed to my speech as anyone.

With that in mind, I’m off to speak to my friends.

I was getting ready 4 breakfast this morning, my home helper putting my socks on, when the subject of this weekends theatre came up, “how was it?” she asked.

“Ok,” I said, “Very contemporary.”

It was true, the plays I had seen were very modern, quite unlike ones usual expectation of theatre.

“what?” she said, obviously not understanding my utterance “contemporary”. I tried again.

“Pardon?”

I gave up. “Weird.”

Success!

Living at a university which focuses on things like sport and drama means tat I have a chance to see a lot of stuff which I wouldn’t ordinarily see. This weekend I’m at university rather than going home, and so far today I have seen no less than two performances, a third I saw last night. The good thing is they’re absolutely free to get into, so when my friends say “We’re off to see a performance, coming matt?” I usually go.

However, before you get mental images of me going to some kind of theatre a la RNCM operas, I better explain these are not full plays. They are much shorter, lasting perhaps half an hour, and take place in cramped performance spaces which reminded me of the comedy clubs of the Edinburgh fringe. Thee pieces themselves are also often highly experimental, sometimes confusing and a little weird. Last night’s piece was about wife abuse, the only characters being female, so at one stage one actress rubbed her own face in her fictional husband’s supper. I think she’ll get an Oscar one day.

The piece I saw this morning was an extract from Hamlet. It was exceptionally well performed, making me reflect upon how much I miss the beautiful language of Shakespeare. It was performed in modern dress, and again had an all-female cast which made he fight scenes interesting.

This afternoon I saw a piece about three dead people in hell. Their hell, rather than being that of fire and brimstone, is to be trapped in a room together. Each person loves one but hates the other, so it is hellish for all concerned, but also rather funny.

There are apparently no more plays today but a few tomorrow. I look forward to it.

Heaven itself is comparable to tonight. I love to travel – the very act of moving allows me to ponder. Tonight, bill and I walked along the bank of a canal, two miles between the Broughton arms and the romping donkey. Cheshire is a nexus of canals and waterways, bounded on both sides by green fields filled with cattle. It was blissful – soon we were miles away from anywhere, not a person around, we sang under the sunset on the way home. I feel great, at last free. University has opened an endless horizon for me.