I like sundays – well, sundays like this, mostly spent reading on the sofa or out in the garden. Quiet days upon which Lyn and I just enjoy each others company, under a clear blue sky. They remind me of sundays back up north, of spending hours in the conservatory reading the sunday times. It was on sundays, too, that my favorite programmes were on t.v, like Michael Palin’s travelogues; and indeed tonight there is a show about Australia I’m looking forward too. Yes, there is something about sundays I like – something homely and wholesome, like the feel of mum’s roast lamb in your stomach: I just felt it, out in the garden with Lyn, so that, for a moment, I was the most content man in the world.

Something odd is afoot on the streets down here. You can almost feel an evil near an ill intent in the labyrinthine lanes

Where fractured communities play separate games

Eying each other with growing suspicion

But resist! This must not be the condition:

The moment we let such fear take hold

Those who spread hate are made bold

So do not allow such devision to reign

For then, those who hate have won the game.

Part of me is relieved it is raining so hard. If it wasn’t I would have been feeling enormously frustrated about now: the urge to just pop to Woolwich would probably be quite unbearable, but given my chair is out of action I’m stuck home. Truth be told I’ve been feeling it all week – I just want to go look around, experience the atmosphere for myself. I don’t know what I expect to find down there, and yet I am very curious.

You see, people in these parts seem to be different. People have unusual attitudes in this part of London, anti-establishment attitude which won’t come across in the news bulletins. Thus I want to go out, wheel about a bit, and listen to what people on the street are saying. I daresay there will be things we are not being told on the beeb, things about the soldier, or the alleged perpetrators. I want to go into pubs, to hear what the men are saying. Gossip will be rampant, but I’m curious about the mentality locally. Is islamophobia increasing? Are people feeling scared or angry? There is probably a wealth of material out there for me to blog about — as a writer I’m just itching to go out there to find stuff to post on here.

But I suppose a broken chair means that urge must be resisted. It’s probably a good thing – I should, I know, keep my nose out of things that are not my concern. Yet, as when the media circus came to Crewe, having such an event so close brings out the journalist in me, and the part of me which wants a piece of the action. The best I can do right now is ask Monika to push me in my manual chair to the co-op and back, but even there I’ll warrant tongues will be wagging.

I feel that I have a duty to note that I heard this morning that my friend Lee Mayer’s dad, Alan, die today. I hard it this morning. You will recall that Lee himself died in January. Lee was a good friend, and I met his father a couple of times: he obviously cared deeply for his son. I was in two mind about noting it – what could I say, after all? – but I have a duty to my school friend to honour his dad, or something. It just seems awful: between that and events in woolwich, things seem a little dark right now.

Just after lunch today I returned to my computer, intending to simply potter about a bit on facebook before returning to the sofa to read. I was browsing casually before I noticed my neighbour harrison’s status: he mentioned a shooing in Woolwich. At first I thought little of it: woolwich is the sort of area where trouble is not infrequent. But then the concern was echoed by his mum, Paula, so I decided to investigate.

Thus I have watched the story grow throughout the afternoon, with increasing concern. It seen became clear that this was anything but a minor incident and at about five I turned on bbc news. I was greeted with shots of Woolwich, swarming with police. It’s strange to see a place one knows quite well, and indeed so close, the site of such national concern: helicopters were – and are – beaming back arial shots of roads I know well. There is currently a car embedded into a two-legged lamp-post which, simply out of fun, I always take care to go under than around. That is a minor point, of course, but one I can’t help but reflect on.

Lyn and I have spent the day at home. My chair is still broken but had it not been, and had the nationwide branch in woolwich still been open, there is a good chance that on a day like today, I could have been driving down that very road at the time this attack – now said to be an act of terrorism – happened. That is a very sobering thought indeed.

Behold my wonderful birthday-girl hard at work in her studio, even on her special day. Love you hun!! [img description=”undefined image” align=”centre”]/images/lyn at work.jpg[/img]

To honour the birthday of Lyn, the most wonderful, kind, patient and generous fiance a guy could wish for, I’d just like to direct you here.

Today is my dads birthday, and tomorrow is lyn’s. I find it curious that two of the most special people in my life have birthdays so close. Without dad I wouldnt have had the upbringing I did, and without Lyn I would never have moved to London and seen how much potential life truly has. Thus, in entirely different ways, dad and lyn made me who I am today (the large role my mum played notwithstanding). All that I can do is wish them both the best of birthdays, and record that I love them more than I can say.

It has been another of those quiet, chilled out sundays. Apart from some work on my thesis this morning, I haven’t really done much. Lyn has been busy at work in her studio. Mind you, I did come across the beginnings of something interesting earlier: I had known about Star Trek: Of Gods and Men for a while now, but,, arrogantly perhaps couldn’t be bothered to engage with it. I finally gave it a viewing this afternoon. It’s strange: it is a version of star trek which is not the official version, as made by paramount, but which has many of the original actors in it, so you can’t call it fanfiction either. It sort of merges the two genres in a way, which interests me greatly. Like fanfic it takes an original text and adds to it in a way the original creators might not have intended, yet it has many actors from the original. I suppose it can be seen as a type of ‘official fanfic’, yet I still feel a sense of subversiveness to it, as if it’s makers were trying to tell paramount something. To my mind it almost yearns for the reinvigoration of a moribund franchise.

Either way, it seems to me that this might be the beginning of something. Textual play is opening up: we saw a good example at the olympics with bond and the queen. Like fanfiction, and like Of Gods and Men, that sequence can be seen to both add to, play with and pay tribute to an original text, for instance referencing/reusing the Union Jack parachute jump from The Spy Who Loved Me; but like the latter and unlike the former, it was semi-official, using original actors in their original roles, so it stands apart from usual, fan-made textual play. Indeed, given that it would be inappropriate for her majesty to appear in an actual EON-produced Bond film, Happy and Glorious is as near as it possibly could be to be to being a ‘real’ bond film; it therefore cannot be lumped together with the usual type of fanfic or textual play*. Could both be instances of a new kind of postmodern artistic movement, one which plays with established texts in new ways? Both constitute the breaking of accepted barriers. Could textual play itself be becoming mainstream? Now that certainly is an interesting prospect. after all, if bond can meet the queen, then why not anything else? Why can’t a borg cube fight an imperial deathstar, or Gollum poke harry potter in the eye?

*Mind you, as soon as one says that, one enters into debates over whether this was or was not bond. We know that ‘real’ 007 films are made by EON. This wasn’t, so therefore it can’t be a real bond film or part of he character’s history. If it is, then one must consider other bits of fanfic to be just as canonic (even if the rules of cannon in the fan studies sense do not apply to this franchise as they usually would). For instance, it would follow that ‘Never say Never Again’ should be accepted into the fold. At the end of the day, however, given that he official, current Bond actor was used, together with the bond theme and a firmly established bond meme in the flag-emblazoned parachute, to try to argue that this was not Bond or a huge tribute to the Bond phenomenon because it was not made by EON would be absurd. After all, although not official bond films, things like Never Say Never Again attest to Bond’s cultural position simply due to the fact they exist.

According to click this week, Bing translator can now translate things into Klingon. Trekkie that I am, I loved the idea, and, rather than making the effort to find anything more substantial to write about, I thought I’d share the following with you:

” DaH blog qaStaHvIS tlhIngan vIta’laH! cool, wIjuS? rejmorgh yIDaQo’, English Hol yIlo’ jatlhqa’ wa’leS. Qapla’!”

It still intrigues me how different parts of this vast city feel differently, so that different areas seem like entirely different places. Lyn and I ere just in Bexleyheath doing the weekly shop. Marta kindly drove us there as my powerchair is currently out of action. It’s quite a distance, and o get thee you have to go down shooters hill road. A certain stretch of that road hasa wood on one side and a golf couse on another, so you can forget you’re in a city. It’s strange – it feel like you’re entering a totally separate place, not London, but another, smaller town. Bexley is, of course, officially part of kent, although I still see anything within the M25 as London. Yet strangely it feels like a small market town, much like Congleton, where I grew up. I’ve experienced this all over the capital, and I’m fascinated by places so close can feel so different, unique and separated. I suppose this is part of the magic of the metropolis; this vast microcosm where so many places are also just one.

Today I would like to direct you here, to an E-petition calling for the resignation of Colin Brewer. A councillor in cornwall, Brewer apologised and resigned earlier this year after commenting that ‘disabled children should be put down’, but was re-elected earlier this month. I’m sorry but I don’t want such a scumbag anywhere in government, local or national. He likens kids with disabilities to farmyard animals which, if ‘misshapen’, are shot. I deeply resent that equation: as a child I was not useless, and nor am I now. Frankly I can’t think of anything worse: the thought of any child, disabled or not, being murdered just because some arrogant little man deemed it ‘useless’ chills the blood. Surely those who think in such narrow terms have no place in government.

I may have attacked the Daily Mail in the past, but this article about the effects of coalition cuts on people with disabilities is well-rounded, humane and well worth a read. While I am hesitant of it’s talk about morality as it is a subjective construct, it paints a vivid, harrowing picture of what life will be like for many of ‘us’. As it says, Condem Britain is a place ”[w]here our Members of Parliament kick 12 bells out of vulnerable people but allow the extraordinarily wealthy to leap through tax loopholes designed to protect their already huge stash.” and where, it goes on ‘some are so materially rich that if they lived to be hundreds of years old – and never did another days work in their lives – it would not dent their coffers and others die for want of a warm bed and a regular meal.” As the writer notes, ”such disparities are obscene”. This overt oppression of those with disabilities by the government must stop. Who knows, now papers like the Mail are publishing such articles, maybe the tide has turned.

I feel absolutely obliged to direct you here, to perhaps the most impressive online review of a film I’ve seen in quite some time. I found a reference to the site, Red Letter Media, in one of the comments to Mark Kermode’s film about cyber media. In that, Dr. Kermode starts to look at the relatively new field of online film reviews: such reviews seem to be taking over from reviews in traditional media, so we are seeing a sort of democratisation of film criticism. People are trying to take a cue from writers like Roger Ebert ad Kermode and really engaging with film. Thus I thought I’dd google one of te sites mentioned, and what I have already seen is quite staggering.

While it lacks the engagement with discourses such as psychoanalysis, Marxism and feminism one often finds in the cinephilia pioneered by the writers of Cahiers Du Cinema, and thus lacks that philosophical aspect (I was reading Zizek yesterday, so I’m into the Lacanian stuff again), this sort of review shows a highly impressive engagement with film. It is a type of close textual analysis where plot holes and inconsistencies are picked up upon (plot holes being, according to Keathley, one possible basis for cinephiliac moments). It is clear that the creator of this review knows his subject back to front: I’ve seen First Contact hundres of times, and he reveals stuff I have missed but, when pointed out, strike me as obvious. I cannot help but be impressed by his level of understanding and attention to detail. Thus whether this is cinephilia in the acdemic sense I’m not sure, but it is certainly part of a new hybrid discourse, a new type of engagement with film; selfreferential, more than a little sarcastic, a tad crude, but no less engaged with cinema.

Blue sofa, how I know you?

Seat of my belonging, my reading, my watching

The hours I spend in your embrace

After returning from this or that place.

Blue sofa, metonymy for home

For safety and warmth,

And, large and comfortable, for love.

Can one truly say one has lived until one sees a polish dude playing the didgeridoo in an empty swimming pool in London? If not, then last night I lived for the first time. We went to see Dominik and his band play up in north London, a a place not far from my grandmother’s, as it happens. it was quite an awesome evening: there was quite a lot going on at the venue, such as very interesting piece where five performers stood in a room, singing yet reacting to those watching. It was really freeflowing and dynamic. It reminded me of how Tolkien discribes the creation of the world, with the gods singing to each other; so much so that I played an extract of the Silmarillion on my Ipad. Dom’s piece was next, more musical but still postmodern, set, as it was, in an empty swimming pool. Interestingly, one member of the group used a device which allowed him to control his instrument simpy by thinking. Dominik was playing the didgeridoo he bought on our trip to Brighton, giving it an australian feel. I was struck by the eclectic feel of it, and the odd combination of elements – very cool indeed.

After that we went to the after show party, and danced the night away. That turned out to be quite epic to, as it became an all night affair. We didn’t get home until about six. It reminded me very much of university – the performances were quite like those I saw at university, and the after-show party was a lot like Brandies (including the bit where I nodded off in my wheelchair). All told then, a really good night out…I’m knackered.

If I may briefly put my artsy hat on again today, I discovered earlier that another Star Wars film has been commissioned. Now, I have nothing against franchises – in fact my favourite movies are franchise films. I ADORE Lord of he Rings, Star Trek and, of course, James bond, and you don’t get much bigger than the 22 film, fifty year 007 saga. Yet star wars is different: I just get the feeling that they are churning out new ones for the sake of it, or just to make money; it has nothing to do with art or story telling. The six films of he LOTR franchise will tell the tale of the finding of the one ring and it’s destruction; the bond francise is concerned with the exploration of bond’s character. It ask who is this lonely government assasin, examining his personality in many ways. You could have argued that the six existing star wars films can together be perceived as the tragedy of Anikin Skywalker. That has already been accomplished: we have seen his birth, rise and fall. I therefore wonder why the franchise needs adding to now the story has been told. It is like an artist going back to a painting and adding to it again and again, unti the canvas becomes a brown mess. It just seems a base money-making ploy to me, with very little artistic integrity.

Yesterday was another interesting day, albeit of a completely different type to wednesday. I went up into London, to a talk Lyn and I had been invited to. Abilitynet were hosting an event to Google Campus about finding better ways for disabled pople to access the online world; we were invited because Lyn and I had participated in the accompanying ‘Look No Hands’ film. In the event, Lyn was feeling tired so I went on my own, and I must say it was quite an interesting afternoon. There were demonstrations of many cool things, such as how Google’s new glasses can be used to enhance the lives of disabled people. The current trend seems to be focussing on the ways mainstream technologies can be adapted to help disabled people rather than making bespoke, expensive devices; the obvious example is the way the Ipad can be used as a communication aid.

It was all rather interesting, but towards the end of the event, during the ‘discussion’, something ironic struck me. It was quite academic and dry – people there didn’t seem to grasp how vital the technology they were discussing was to certain people. They were being academic and thorough, of course, treating it as they would any other branch of technology; yet it seemed to me that, without the things they were discussing, people like myself would be leading much more barren lonely lives. I don’t blame them for talking as they did, but the mismatch between these two realities, seemed odd. In a way it seemed like they didn’t realise they were setting people free.

It feels like ages since I had a ‘what I did last night’ type blog to write, but today, I’m rather pleased to report, I do. Yesterday afternoon, Dominik, having aken over from Marta at five, proposed we go to a gig he knew about. Apparently, one of his friends was putting on a jam session up in Shoreditch, and he thought it might be fun to go. Lyn and I were both up for it, so off we went: Lyn, myself, Dominik and his friend Anita.

While I must say it took a while for us to get there (we had to hunt for a flower shop on the way) once we got there, I instantly felt enthused. Some places just have a vibe about them, where one feels both relaxed and excited at the same time. The jam session was in a small place: it was a room with unplastered walls, adorned with all sorts of cool pictures and artworks. It felt quite countercultural in there, yet very friendly. People were playing music an chatting, and it all felt very relaxed.

Two hours passed rather quickly. About half way through, Lyn joined in with the music, and I got talking to a guy from Sweden. Everyone there was on the young side – you know, hippy types, the type of freethinkers who squat politically. I felt relaxed and happy: for once i wasn’t drinking, and for once I was in my manual chair, which I must say was rather nice. The night ended shortly before midnight with the most awesome beatboxer I have ever heard (seriously, the guy was smegging incredible!) and we were soon on our way home. According to Dominik, such nights happen regularly, so I’m now dying to go there again – it was the sort of place I can see mself havng a lot of fun at.

Watching the state opening of parliament earlier, I was struck by the pomp and ceremony of it all. We bits, as a nation, seem to relish such occasions: we seem to love dressing up and putting on a show, and pretending that it all somehow means something. So we had the queen arriving in horse-drawn coach, escorted by men on horseback, to participate in something essentially pantomimic: the way ‘black rod’ knocks on the door, the way people have to nod at certain points – yes you can say it ties us to the past, but at the same time it is a performance intended to endow the government with an authority and dignity it does not deserve.

Of course, I was struck by the contrast between the pageantry of this morning’s arrival and how the queen arrived at last years olympic opening ceremony. That sketch at least shows a bit of self-knowing humility on the part of the palace, and I’ve written before about how it can be read as an implicit admission of her position as a construct, a fiction. I find such self-knowledge praiseworthy and commendable, which is why I think that sketch quite an important work of art.

Contrast that novel, brave entrance with the entrance the queen made today, so full of ceremony and pretence. It is quite an interesting, amusing juxtaposition. Of course, on one level what we saw his morning up at Westminster is no less a fiction than having the queen parachute out of a helicopter with double-O-seven, but it is treated so much more seriously, as if it was somehow more real. That strikes me as rather odd, as if after it was finally admitted that the emperor was indeed naked, we are once again expected to believe he is wearing an ornate gown.

My reverie ended, however, soon after her majesty started talking. As soon as she uttered the word ‘fairness’ I knew that the content of her speech was going to be anything but fair. The tories should be banned from using that word: they try to fool people into thinking it means rewarding people who work hard, but cutting benefits and lowering taxes rewards the already-advantaged while leaving the poorest in society to starve. That fosters injustice and inequality rather than fairness. I felt sick every time her majesty was forced to utter that word – no doubt CaMoron put it in to make people believe he is doing the right thing, but a tory uttering the word fair is like nick griffin or Nigel Farage talking about tolerance – they utterly distort it’s true meaning. Also, speaking of farage, the way camoron is now pandering to that fascist boils my blood: the more people speak of Europe as somehow problematic, the more people continue to think in terms of simplistic nation states rather than internationally, the more xenophobic we become and the more idiots like Farage will think they have a valid point.

The speech ended with me angry, despairing at how we have to put up with such a government and fearful for the future. No doubt the tories love this pageantry, thinking that they somehow deserve it, and pretending that the pain they are inflicting is somehow fair.

I just heard that visual effects master Ray Harryhausen, whose stop-motion wizardry graced such films as Jason and the Argonauts and Clash of the Titans, has died aged 92. Cinema has lost another of its pioneers. In his honour, I think it apt that tonight I simply direct you once again here.

Lyn and I both dribble, and use teatowels to keep our chins dry. I’ve always done it: they are far more effective than tissues, or anything else. We have quite an assorment, acquired from all sorts of places. When we need to, we buy new ones from shops, as one normally would. Yet we also seem to pick them up, from time to time. For example, I ‘acquire’ bar towels from pubs, or used to when I frequented such places. It often happens without noticing: I have a habit, probably a bad one, of grabbing the nearest towel, mopping up my dool, and taking it with me.

One such cloth caught my attention today. I think we acquired it a year or so ago, at a paraorchestra rehearsal up in north London. Lyn was using it. It had hand drawn pictures of children: according to it’s boarder, it commemorated the millenium. I assume it is just one of those souvenir towels where teachers get kids to draw selfportraits, which are then compiled to produce a towel for their parents to buy. As such, this towel probably meant something to someone once, yet a decade and a bit on, it was discarded in the kitchen of a church hall. It does not record who created it, so I find myself wondering how it got there, and who the crudely-drawn faces staring from it are. They bear forenames only. They’d all be in their late tens at least, by now. Each will have his or her own tale to tell, probably by now not even remembering drawing these pictures. Thus it strikes me that this towel is a discarded piece of another person’s history, now completely devoid of the meaning it once had; a souvenir of childhood, of parenthood, of classmates, of friendships, now used as no more than a tool for wiping up dribble.

It has been a long, yet rather awesome, day. We met up with Charlie and her family (well, three of them) at the southbank: C’s sister poppy was performing there with her university choir, and they invited us to watch. After a splendid performance, we went and had a picnic in a nearby grassy area by the river. I caught up with my old friends over some excellent sandwiches and a few beers, and all too soon it was time to come home. Charlotte is well, as ever, and still her hyperactive self. We just got home, tired but content, feeling the warm glow of a day well spent.

[img description=”undefined image” align=”centre”]/images/cripstrip.jpg[/img]

Sorry, this was just too funny fo me not to share.

I am getting very worried indeed about an increasingly apparent trend in british politics. I’m sure you will have heard by now how well UKIP did in yesterday’s local elections; you all would have seen Farage’s grinning mug all over the lunchtime news bulletins. I came in here to write about it, but now that I have I’m not sure what to say. As Lyn wisely pointed out to me earlier, simply hurling abuse at him and his followers will achieve nothing and get nowhere. And yet, they frighten me: it is clear that they represent a step backwards, a step towards isolationism and xenophobia, a step down a very dangerous path. Take any ukip policy and I will show you its underlying folly, its roots in xenophobia, or its sheer ideocy. For instance, ukip are against vthe smoking ban in pubs: what a cynical, populist move. Since the ban came in, pubs have become much nicer, cleaner and more pleasant. But because the type of people who vote ukip only see things in terms of their own rights rather than those of others, and they want to smoke, they oppose he ban. Something similar could be said aout their stance on climate change: because the environmental rules designed to tackle global warming inconvenience them, and they want the right to pump whatever shit they want into the atmosphere, they oppose all such regulation not worrying about the problems it causes for others. Theirs is a short-sighted, selfish, even childish worldview; one we could ell do without given the problems we face. Such problems can only be solved if we work with the EU, encourage the free-flow of people and ideas, and help everyone in society to forfil their potential. the moment we start listening to bigots like farage – and he is a bigot, just look at his speeches – we step back to a time when difference was feared, greed was valued and hatred was commonplace.

We need to step backwards, look at ukip and what they stand for, and see them as the fascists they are. That is not happening at the moment, so Farage can go onto programs like Question Time, spewing hate and folly and calling it ‘realistic’, and people will vote for him. He and his party of loons need to be engaged with, analysed, and exposed as the bigots they are before they gain any more credence and people start believing they are legitimate and viable. Fail todo so and something very dark and hateful will creep back into society. This has stred to happen now, and the weasel words of ukip have begun, trying to portray themselves as somehow non-racist and inclusive, but the sooner people see the folly farage represents, the better.

A bit of archaeology today. I found this fascinating piece earlier, telling of the finding of the remains of a british soldier who fell in Holland two centuries ago. It tells the story well, yet we may never know who this man was; it Made me cry, for some reason. I find myself wondering who he was, and whether anyone missed him. Reading it, this old song came to mind.

Charlie’s little brother Will is apparently in this music video as one of the bullies. That is rather ironic as I vant imagine Will bullying anyone, but it is nevertheless another hit for the Jones clan. I just came cross it on facebook, and while I can’t say the music is quite to my taste, the story the video tells strikes a chord. It could be about Lyn and myself: I have been stressing out today over my masters; sometimes it just seems like the world is out to get me, but, as the song says, ‘Together we’re

Invincible.’

(nice outfits too, I might add)

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.

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.

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.

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 makes 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.

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.

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?

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.

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?

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.

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.

Take us home, mighty river.

East, into the reflected sunset

Her last rays glint off the buildings

Shining and guiding us homeward

As the city prepares to sleep once more.

Yet the river flows as it ever has done

Night and day. Constant and eternal Take us home

As a rule I don’t lie to be picky over language. In fact I see myself as a linguistic liberal. I realise that language is constantly evolving and therefore has no absolute rules. Yet earlier, watching the news, I heard an american medic give a news conference where he began every sentence with the word ‘So’. Literally every sentence. The first few times I could forgive; then it started to get irritating; then I yelped with exasperation every time he began a sentence. Given this was a doctor, I began to fear for the English language.

I think I might as well just flag this Star Trek themed short piece by Dr. Mark Kermode up. In it he talks about the forthcoming Trek film, of course, but also interestingly touches upon star trek’s place in culture and it’s impact. He also makes reference to fan-fictions relation to that impact, particularly about how so much fanfic picks up upon the kirk and spock binary. While I don’t discuss that binary, much of what he says relates to my academic work: in a way it is part of the very discourse I discuss in my thesis. Very interesting stuff then, and worth a watch. I must say, too, that I still can’t wait to watch Star Trek into darkness!