If you ask me, Victoria Thomas Bowen has nothing whatsoever to apologise for. From what I read here, she is being tried for assault for throwing a McDonald’s milkshake over Nigel Farage. But given that Farage should be the one on trial, or at least on his knees begging our forgiveness for deliberately misleading the country into voting for something manifestly counter to our best interests, she surely has nothing to answer for. She simply expressed what any rational, sensible person in the UK is thinking by venting our collective anger at a vile charlatan who deserves every bit of abuse and humiliation he gets. We all need to get behind this poor woman, now being persecuted for expressing perfectly natural, justifiable emotions.

Something rather sweet happened to me yesterday which I think deserves to be noted here. Taking advantage of the dry, sunny weather, I chose to take a nice long trundle up to Stratford. The River Lea and the Olympic Park looked incredible yesterday. Before coming home, though, I chose to check out some of Stratford itself, including it’s high street.

Like most of London, Stratford is thriving, and the high street was bustling late yesterday afternoon: it was full of music and noise. Somewhat predictably, I encountered some street preachers there, which of course I immediately wanted to get to shut the fuck up. I went over to them, and started to try to tell them to be quiet. Unusually, however, I soon realised from their accents that they were Americans.

One guy in the group started to talk to me, trying to justify his bullshit-spewing. Of course our conversation got nowhere: these people think they are purveyors of some hidden knowledge that everyone is ignorant of, and can’t seem to grasp the reality that their beliefs are essentially baseless or that they might be wrong. They kept insisting that, deep down, I knew God existed, but I just refused to admit it to myself. I naturally found this exceptionally arrogant and unhinged, and it made me want to argue with them even more.

Our confrontation went on for about half an hour, predictably getting nowhere. During that time, though, I gradually calmed down, and we began to have a rational conversation. One man, called Adam, told me he once had a friend called Richard, who also had CP, and that I reminded him of his friend. As things began to cool down, I saw that they were nice people, albeit worryingly deluded and highly misguided. The most touching moment, however, came when one of them offered to buy me a burger from a nearby fast food shop: it had been a long afternoon, and by then I was rather hungry. I hesitated at first, not knowing how I would feed it to myself and not wanting to get burger everywhere; but then Adam said he would feed it to me, as he had once fed his friend Richard.

That touched me enormously. I accepted their offer, and spent the next half hour or so talking to them and being fed a rather delicious cheeseburger. There was a lot we didn’t agree on, and I was still confounded by their refusal to listen to reason; but, apart from that, I think I made a few new friends yesterday. Before we parted, I offered to buy the first round in the pub, but the group said they needed to go to a prayer meeting. As I headed to Stratford station, I reflected on what had just happened: their religion still struck me as infuriatingly arrogant, but they were nonetheless good, kind human beings. I found their sheer ignorance frustrating, but there were still glimmers of hope there. I wondered if I would ever see Adam and his American friends again – I told him about my blog of course – but perhaps if I go up to Stratford next Saturday I will find them there. Who knows, maybe they will feed me another cheeseburger.

Staying with the subject of film, the next one I really want to watch is reviewed by Mark Kermode here. The Apprentice is bound to be one of the films of the year, pretty much due to it’s release this close to the US election. The entire world is petrified of what will happen if Trump is re-elected, so a film exposing him, exposing what an utter disgrace to human civilisation he is, is very timely. I certainly intend to go and watch it as soon as I can, and would encourage everyone else to do the same.

Sometimes I watch films which require long, long entries delving into them, but when I come to it I don’t know where to begin. I went to see A Different Man with John yesterday, and I haven’t seen a more interesting film in a long time. I left the cinema thinking that I’d have to write an entire thesis about it to do it justice: it’s such an interesting film, and there’s a lot which I don’t think I understood. There’s a great deal about disability, appearance and self-perception, with the central character seeming to become two different people but also remaining one. I got the impression that any analysis of it could get very Lacanian. It is, however, the type of film which a single viewing cannot do justice, so I better leave this for now, and direct you here to Mark Kermode’s review of it.

We all know that Donald Trump is a total fraud, but if you want to watch a pretty good summary of precisely how shallow he is, I think this Steve Shives video is well worth a watch. In it, Shives outlines what a sham Trump truly is: everything he does is an act, intended to convince anyone watching that he’s something he’s demonstrably not. Yet Shives also asks quite an important question: how does Trump get away with it? Surely he should try harder. His shallowness is plain for all to see; rather than being a great business tycoon, Trump is a total failure who has bankrupted himself multiple times. So why are so many people falling for the shitshow? Why have so many people apparently been taken in by this charlatan, to the extent that they seem to revere and almost worship him? That is surely a very perplexing question, especially given that Trump, a convicted con-man who should be in jail, could soon be elected as American president again.

If I hadn’t just seen this reported on the BBC evening news bulletin, I would probably have assumed it was some kind of computer-generated hoax. “Elon Musk’s Starship rocket has completed a world first after part of it was captured on its return to the launch pad. The SpaceX vehicle’s lower half manoeuvred back beside its launch tower where it was caught in a giant pair of mechanical arms, as part of its first test flight.” Say what you will about Musk, what he and the scientists working for him achieved today is truly remarkable. To get a rocket to take off, and then land back on it’s launch pad ready to be reused, is utterly jaw dropping. As someone who sometimes struggles to park his powerchair neatly, my mind boggles at the sheer amount of mechanics which must have been involved. Seriously, if you watch nothing else today, watch this.

Given what an awesomely scientific weekend it has been for me, nicking this astonishing photo of the night’s sky yesterday seems very appropriate.

Super bright Venus is to its left, and the bright star Arcturus is to its right.

This afternoon turned out to be surprisingly fascinating. I had assumed that it would be just an average, humdrum Saturday afternoon: I set out for my usual trundle at around midday, heading to Charlton and Woolwich, before hopping onto the Elizabeth Line to see what was happening in Canary Wharf.

I didn’t stay around there long as I was starting to get hungry. Before coming home, though, I decided to pop into the excel centre. There are usually one or two events going on there each weekend, but not often much to write about. This afternoon, however, I was in for a treat.

As I passed one of the exhibition halls, I noticed New Scientist Live was taking place. At first I didn’t think I would go in as I didn’t have the cash on me for the quite large entrance fee. But then my cheeky side kicked in: going up to the ticket desk, I asked whether there were any concessions for wheelchair users. To be honest I wasn’t very optimistic, but I thought it was worth a try. To my total astonishment, however, the guy just gave me a ticket for free and let me in.

My parents have subscribed to New Scientist magazine since I was little; it was always on the coffee table when I was growing up. Alongside, say, the National Geographic, it is probably at the forefront of popular scientific journalism. I thus knew roughly what to expect, and it was why I was suddenly so keen to get in. However, it quickly became obvious that I had stumbled into a real treat: there were all kinds of exhibits and stalls, about subjects ranging from climate change to space flight. I was even astonished to find out that the UK has it’s own space agency (who knew?) and I got talking to a very interesting guy from it.

I didn’t stay as long as I might have. It was all fascinating, and if I had got wind of it before I would have made a day of it. Time was drawing on, though, and I was still hungry. Yet the event spans the whole weekend, and I’m told the ticket I was given will still be valid tomorrow, so no prizes for where I’ll be heading after breakfast. I love how London can still produce the most wonderful surprises.

I passed through General Gordon square in Woolwich again today, and once again felt rather irked that the big TV there was showing Sky News rather than BBC. What irritated me even more, though, was the fact that Sky was broadcasting a pretty obvious attack on the Beeb. Of course, today saw the BBC launch a review into allegations of sexual assaults in the wake of the Huw Edwards scandal; there’s no denying that that is newsworthy. Yet the way Sky was doing it was so obvious, so gratuitous, that to be honest I found it rather sickening. They seemed to be gloating in the misfortunes of their rival, and trying to diminish their standing. Admittedly, I was in quite a bad mood at the time, so it could just have been my perception, but I couldn’t help wondering how long it’ll be until a Sky News broadcaster gets done for sexual assault.

I know I don’t write much about climate change on here. The truth is, I don’t know much about it, but it’s becoming clearer and clearer that the Earth’s climate is changing rapidly due to human activity. I’m sure like most people today, I am frankly alarmed at the news coming from America: at the time of writing, Hurricane Milton has already killed four people. Such storms are obviously becoming more and more severe. To be honest, as a disabled man, I’m relieved that I don’t live in the danger zone of such tempests, because I don’t know how I would possibly survive. Either way, such events must surely serve as a wake-up call: humanity has to act, collectively, to curb the effect we are having on the environment.

Job vacancy:

Personal Assistant for physically disabled man in Eltham/Kidbrooke.

Your duties will include:

• Help with preparing meals.
• Help with getting dressed.
• Help with showering and shaving.
• Help to keep my flat clean.

Two shifts per day – morning and evening.

Seven days a week.

Vacancy can be taken by one person, or shifts can be split between several people.

£13.15 per hour

Email Matthew@matthewgoodsell.co.uk

(Please pass this on to anyone you think may be interested.)

According to quite a few Facebook posts I’ve come across from people with Cerebral Palsy, yesterday was world CP day. That was news to me, quite frankly: I, probably like most people, hadn’t heard anything about it, and if I had stuck to what I gleaned from the mainstream media it would be a complete non-event. That seems a shame to me as we are apparently supposed to use the day to celebrate everyone who has cerebral palsy. Each one of us is different, of course, and the condition effects us all in slightly different ways; but we all have something to contribute in our own unique ways. That may range from the briefest, simplest communication with those around us, to creating art, making films or even writing blog entries. As a group, surely we deserve cheering, if only once a year. Thus, while it might be a tad cheesy to base a day around a disability or medical condition, I’ll happily wish my fellow spastics a happy World CP Day.

I heard in the news earlier that Donald Trump had held another rally in Butler, Pennsylvania, the very place where an attempt to assassinate him was made a month ago. As much as I try to shy away from conspiracy theories, I can’t be the only one who thinks there was something dodgy about that entire episode, can I? Of course, I know next to nothing about guns (if I was ever allowed to use one, there would be absolute carnage!) but surely any marksman firing from that range would have taken Trump’s head off. The fact that it apparently just grazed his ear, not actually wounding him severely but leaving him with a scarred ear which he could then show to people, seems a little too convenient for my liking. Trump wasn’t hurt, but was given evidence with which he could pedal his victim narrative. As much as I dislike conspiracy theories, I can’t be the only one to have noticed this. And now trump’s back in the very place where it all supposedly happened. Let’s put it this way: if I saw this story being played out in a film or television program, I would say it was stretching my suspension of disbelief.

I’m quite sure that there will be moments in everyone’s life which you simply cannot forget: moments so important to you that they stay with you, and you think of them every day just to remind yourself how incredible life can get. Today marks the ten year anniversary of such a moment for me. In fact it’s the ten year anniversary of the single greatest moment of my life; a moment so profoundly significant to me that simply thinking about it gives me light in my darkest glooms. Ten years ago today, I met Sir Patrick Stewart.

I remember every detail of that day like it was yesterday: the trip over to The Excel Centre with Lyn and Paulo; getting there early, and being fascinated by the Destination Star Trek exhibition; the conversation I had with Tim Russ; spotting Colm Meaney. Most of all, though, I remember meeting Sir Patrick.

Of course, that moment was so significant for me because I had just spent seven years completing my Masters by Research thesis. In my thesis, I wrote extensively about my relationship with The Ahab Scene in Star Trek First Contact, and why that scene is so significant to me. To have been able to tell the very man who appears in that scene, and who I wrote so extensively about, about my work was a dream come true. It was a once in a lifetime event, and, like watching Monty Python Live, the fact that it happened still blows my mind. Remembering that such awesome things are possible is enough to brighten up my darkest day, and make me wonder what equally incredible thing might come next.

I really can’t believe that it has already been a year since John and I got back from our trip to Spain and Morocco. That was such an incredible trip, the memories of it still blow my mind. They probably always will: we experienced a range of exotic, intriguing cultures, so different from what I’m used to, that it just whetted my appetite and made me long to travel even more. Mind you, one memory which stuck with me the most is of how people cross roads in Morocco. Even today, whenever I cross a road without waiting for the light to change, I think of it as ‘Doing a Tangier’.

Three or four years ago during the pandemic, whenever I was out and about on public transport, I used to view anyone I saw who wasn’t wearing a mask with contempt: did these arrogant gits think the rules didn’t apply to them? Did they want the virus to spread? Did they think they were too special to catch it? These days, though, I’ve caught myself thinking similar things about anyone I see who is wearing a mask: I mean, do they think they’re too special to breathe the air the rest of us have to? How dare they be so pretentiously neurotic! Obviously, there could be all kinds of reasons why somebody might be wearing a mask on the bus or tube; I just can’t seem to help thinking that it says something about them.

Of course, I have no idea why such sights provoke such reactions from me, either way. It just amuses me how it has sort of come full circle: where not wearing a mask during the pandemic struck me as selfish, wearing one now seems like height of arrogance. Ultimately, though, I suppose both feed my concern for how self centred people are becoming.

I made this last Wednesday after my weekly breakfast in Costa.

Believe me, it took all my resolve to overcome the temptation to show it to the guys in there this morning. I don’t think they would have appreciated it though.

As a disabled blogger, there is only one thing for me to flag up today: according to this story, BBC News reporter Frank Gardner was forced to crawl on his arse to an airplane loo and back again. Gardner can’t use his legs as he was paralysed by Al-Qa’Ida gunmen twenty years ago, but on a flight from Warsaw back to London on Monday he had to crawl on the floor of the plane in order to reach the toilet. As undignified as that sounds, however, I’m afraid to say it’s only par for the course: I’ve heard numerous accounts of people with disabilities having to crawl or being carried onto or off planes because the airline didn’t have an aisle chair. If memory serves it happened to Lyn once or twice. Thus I’m sad to say that this doesn’t surprise me at all. At least now that someone like Gardner has spoken up about it, perhaps something will start to get done to sort it.

I don’t think I have a choice but to direct everyone here, simply because it’s a piece of (American) political satire worthy of Ian Hislop himself!

I’m afraid this entry will have to be another medical update. I had intended to go up to the Rejoin march yesterday, but got delayed. Sunny as it was, I thought I’d take a walk along the river before heading to the protest. I went down to Greenwich before heading west. The Thames Path is mostly wide and flat. There are stretches of it, though, where it veers away from the riverbank and you have to follow it down back streets and alleyways, where the pavement can be neglected and uneven. I was following one of these paths early yesterday afternoon, just past Deptford, when my chair hit bump in the pavement and I fell out. Luckily some people were nearby to help me back in, but the arm of my glasses had broken off. I had hit my eye, but otherwise felt fine.

However, my specks were my main concern, as without the ability to see I can’t do anything. I caught the bus to North Greenwich, and then one to my opticians in Charlton. When I got there, they immediately saw something bad had just happened. My eye apparently looked bad, so they insisted upon calling an ambulance. While I waited, they kindly repaired my glasses.

When the ambulance guys came, there was not much they could do apart from clean my eye – nothing was cut. They checked me over, but after that there was nothing I could do but return home. I felt fine, even heading back out a bit later to get the tube to Westminster to see what remained of the protest, but I was too late.

All this just goes to show how much London needs to do something about these windy, neglected backstreets. I just got up, and when I looked in the mirror this morning I saw that I had the biggest black eye I have ever seen; it honestly looks like I was in a boxing match. But then, perhaps I have, and this is just my cover story….Trust me, you should have seen the other fella!

I wanted to go to a protest, but left it too late.
That’ll teach me not to wait.
When I got to Westminster, everyone had gone home,
So I was suddenly there all alone.
I really wanted to join the Rejoin march
Going down Whitehall and under Marble Arch.
But of such protests there will be more to come,
The campaign to Rejoin the EU has only just begun.

I think I need to flag this up, simply because it got me chuckling so much. It’s Mark Kermode’s review of Megalopolis, Francis Ford Coppola’s new film, and he absolutely hated it. In fact, Kermode says it is one of the worst films he has ever seen, but the way he rips into it, almost getting comically enthusiastic about how terrible it is, makes the review well worth watching.

I have caught myself doing something a bit odd recently. When I’m out and about, going along a high street say, and I hear a child call, I automatically look round and assume they’re shouting abuse at me. Of course, most of the time they’re just chatting with their friends; but my concern about these youngsters seems to have reacted a point where I just assume they are going to be nasty. I don’t know if I’m being paranoid or not, given how regularly these little shits do indeed think they’re being clever by mocking me. I probably am, but kids seem so abrupt and brazen these days that I inevitably feel a pang of concern whenever I’m around them. It just seems like a sad point to have reached, when just hearing a child shout puts me on edge, not just with respect to my own psyche but in terms of what it says about youth culture more generally.

I just came across this and felt compelled to nab it. It reflects my feelings on the matter entirely.

There is little more grotesque, politically, than Tory hypocrisy.

I really, really think anyone interested or concerned about world affairs and politics should watch this excellent Channel Four documentary about Donald Trump. It makes it perfectly clear just how unhinged and maniacal Trump is. Frankly, I find it baffling that America is even considering such a dangerous, unstable person; the prospect of such an arrogant, small minded megalomaniac regaining the world’s most powerful political position is genuinely frightening.

Perhaps the biggest thing I took away from yesterday is that I have to get out of London more often. As epic as it is, for the last fourteen years the metropolis has been virtually my entire world, and I have sort of forgotten that there are other equally fascinating places to discover. I’m not quite sure how it came about, but yesterday morning Dom made a suggestion: why not spend the afternoon down in Brighton?

Naturally my reply was “Why not?” Spending some time at the seaside would be cool. Dom had some stuff to do down there, but he suggested that I came with him, just for a change of scenery. Thus, early yesterday afternoon, I got the tube to London Bridge, re-meeting Dom there before getting the train to Brighton. It was only a short journey, and in about an hour we were on the coast, walking down to the sea.

I instantly felt the difference: the architecture was so different, and things already felt far more laid back. We grabbed a quick lunch in a Wetherspoons before heading on to the beach. There, slightly to my surprise, Dom left me for an hour or so, saying he had something to do. That meant I was left to explore the seafront on my own, which was rather cool: there was so much going on, as well as so many interesting pieces of history. One thing which particularly caught my eye was a long line of old arches towards the eastern end of the promenade. Called Madeira Terrace, they are a series of about thirty to forty green cast iron Victorian archways. They had obviously been left to deteriorate for some time, but from what I read on the nearby information boards, they will soon be renovated.

Even more interestingly, towards the eastern end of the terrace, I found some kind of bar or music venue, from where I heard some cool music being played. Naturally I went to investigate, and was told that a Guns And Roses tribute band would be playing there later in the evening. Watching them would obviously be awesome, but by then it was time to go find Dom again.

A while later, I found him where we had agreed to meet. I told him about the Guns and Roses gig, but ultimately we agreed that, given we had to get the train home at about nine, it wouldn’t be worth the entrance fee. The rest of the evening was spent enjoying another beer on the beachfront, before getting the train back to London. It had been a very cool afternoon: naturally I thought of all the times I went to Brighton with Lyn, particularly this one, which now seem so long ago. Ultimately, though, it just reinforced my desire to get out of London a bit more – staying here week in, week out gets a bit much after a while. It’s time to see other parts of the country, and indeed the world.

The problem with the guys from Monty Python is, you never quite know when they’re joking. I’ve recently been reading a lot of guff in the news about how John Cleese has supposedly fallen out with Eric Idle: they seem to be rowing about the appointment of Terry Gilliam’s daughter as Python Manager. The thing is, I don’t think it’s really clear whether they are having a proper, full-blown row, or whether they are just being sarcastic and calling each other names in the jocular-yet-intelligent way they always have. Is the bitterness real, or merely a pretence?

Of course, the print press seems to be reporting it as a major dispute between the two men, as if they now genuinely loathe eachother: Yet, it may be my imagination, but I can’t help detecting a touch of humour in their tweet exchanges, as if they are just trying to wind everyone up by exchanging insults. In many of the interviews the Pythons have done together, they often take the mickey out of one another- this apparent dispute is probably just an extension of that playful, feigned animosity. After all, I refuse to believe that two such highly intelligent men and lifelong friends could fall out over something so insignificant. Mind you, if that is the case, then either the press has been resoundingly duped, or are deliberately trying to make things seem more dramatic and fractious than they really are.

More to the point, though, I can’t help wondering: if the Python guys are having financial issues again, could it give rise to them doing another live show, as it did in 2014?

I’m a member of two or three James Bond themed pages on Facebook. Last night, on one of them I came across a reference to some kind of 007 shop in an arcade off Piccadilly. This naturally pricked my interest, and today I decided to go check it out. Getting there would be easy enough, as it looked like it was only a short walk from Green Park station.

Indeed it was. I must say, though, I’m not sure I’ll go that way again in some time: Piccadilly is teeming with toffee nosed snobs who think nothing of stepping right in front of me, and then accusing me of going too fast. And when I found the arcade, Burlington Arcade, I was staggered by the sheer opulence: it was like stumbling upon some kind of alternate reality where everyone was a billionaire.

The good news is that the arcade itself is wheelchair accessible. That slightly surprised me to be honest, as those old Victorian arcades in central London often have steps into them. However, it seems that a ramp had been built into the old steps. That was where the encouraging part ended, as none of the shops in the arcade were fit for wheelchair users – the doors were too narrow.

Sadly, this also went for the shop I had come to check out: from the outside, it looked like it was chock full of cool Bond memorabilia, and I even heard the theme from Goldeneye playing in the background. There were so many lavish 007-related pieces of merchandise it looked awesome. But I quickly saw that there was no way I could get in, let alone negotiate the three floors that the shop occupied. There was nothing I could do but look through the windows at all the model Aston Martins and Golden Guns.

After a few minutes of this, one of the members of staff from the shop came out and asked if I was okay. Naturally I replied that I was, so he asked if I wanted a drink. There were a few tables outside the store which customers could sit at.

Temptation suddenly shot through the glass roof above me: a martini there would surely be fantastic. I began to type that I would love a vesper, but then realised that he wasn’t offering it for free. At that point I asked the price, and was told it would cost £24. Given too that it was only 2pm, and I had yet to nagivate my way home, I quickly changed my mind, declined the offer and went on my way.

In all, then, it was a redundant, disappointing trip. But, as a Bond fan, at least I now know where the shop is, ready to return when my thirst for a decent martini grows too much.

After what I saw earlier, I’m starting to get concerned about scooters. By scooter, I mean the four wheeled mobility aids with handlebars usually used by old people, rather than the skateboards with handlebars kids ride instead of bikes (although the electric versions of them are also becoming quite dangerous). I was in Woolwich again earlier, going along the high street at my usual steady pace, when all of a sudden, two or three scooters zipped past me. Something had obviously been done to them, as no mobility aid should ever have been going that fast. They were being driven by young men, who I would guess were in their twenties. I only caught a fleeting glimpse, but the way they hurtled down a busy high street, far faster than I have ever gone in my powerchair, struck me as extremely dangerous. They had obviously souped up the scooters and were riding them for fun. As someone who needs his powerchair to get around, I really hope this isn’t the start of a ridiculous new trend.

Say you’re out and about in your powerchair, trundling peacefully along. You have decided it’s time to head home, so you’re heading towards the entrance to a DLR station. All of a sudden, however, you go down a step which you didn’t see: it isn’t very big, nothing is damaged, but the jolt is enough to bring you to a halt, wondering why the blazes you didn’t see the drop coming. Then, some random woman who apparently saw the incident chimes up with the words “Careful, there’s a step!” She delivers these words so dryly and with such a lack of irony that surely the only possible response you or anyone else could give is “No shit!”

I think I’ll just vent about this here, mostly because I don’t know who to contact to complain about it properly. In Woolwich there is a large screen in a public square, General Gordon Square, where people can gather and watch public events. I think it was construction for the 2012 Olympics, and has been there ever since. I often pass through the square on my way to Woolwich town centre or the Elizabeth line station. When it isn’t showing any particular event, it usually just screens the BBC news channel, which I think is sensible enough.

The last two times I’ve gone that way, however, I have noticed it showing sky news instead. Now, I have no idea why it made the change or who decided it should change, but it really riles me up. The BBC is a widely respected broadcaster, renowned the world over for its objectivity and impartiality; Sky is not. Sky just churns out commercial pap, designed to exploit its viewers. I find it sickening, frankly,  that anyone in Woolwich would want to make such a switch, or think that people there should be watching a repugnant Murdoch-owned tool rather than one of the world greatest news agencies. I know that this might seem silly, but the two channels are by no means equal, and letting Sky, the company responsible for the general degradation of British broadcasting, screen in the square where we should be watching the BBC gives it a gravitas it does not deserve.

You know that life is truly awesome and that you live in a wonderful city, when you’re out and about, trundling along in your powerchair, and you turn a corner to see four men dressed as medieval knights in full armour, riding horses and carrying lances. That’s exactly what happened to me yesterday afternoon: I was pootling along in my powerchair, and I thought I’d go past Eltham Palace and down King John’s path. It’s a pleasant route I take fairly often as the path runs between large, ancient fields on either side. There are often horses grazing in the fields, and there is a fantastic view across London.

Yesterday, though, something unusual was going on. I could hear something was afoot as I approached the path: crowds cheering and a man speaking over a tannoy. Then, as I turned the corner into the footpath, I found four horses in front of me, each with a guy in full shining armour riding it. I couldn’t believe my eyes at first, but instantly decided it was something to blog about. The ‘knights’ were being lead towards one of the fields, where I could hear a crowd had formed.

I had obviously stumbled across some kind of event. Following the horses, as I got closer to the field I could see there were a lot of children in the crowd. This was obviously some kind of medieval-themed jousting show run by Eltham Palace. Interestingly, you can tell that jousting actually took place there because one of the nearby roads is called Tilt Yard Approach; I just didn’t expect to encounter it yesterday.

I didn’t go into the field because I didn’t want to get my chair muddy, and from the path I couldn’t see too much so I didn’t stay long. From the sound of things, though, people were having great fun, with crowds cheering, trumpets sounding and hooves thudding. After a few minutes I continued on my walk, remarking to myself how incredible it was to suddenly come across a medieval jousting tournament.

You might be why I posted such a grim entry yesterday, and why I went into so much detail over it – why not just keep such matters to myself? The thing is, I knew I’d have to tell my parents about what happened on Thursday somehow. That means I would need to email them, message them over Facebook, or video chat to them. All three methods would cause them to worry, and I probably wouldn’t be able to explain myself fully without getting interrupted or sidetracked. If I blogged about what happened, however, I could explain myself fully in prose, outlining all the details. The downside to that, of course, is that Mum and Dad would only get to know what happened when they read my blog, which I admit is pretty a cold and impersonal way of finding out your son had been run over by a car; the advantage is that I could also show the entry to whoever else I needed to, making explaining far quicker. More broadly, such entries also give readers in general an idea of the kinds of things people like me go through fairly regularly.

As it is, the blog entry proved to be a great help. Upon the advice of several people, I went back to the hospital yesterday to get my foot checked. It was a long, slow afternoon sat waiting in A+E. I wasn’t an urgent case, so all I could do was sit there, fiddling with my Ipad for about four hours. I’ve never been more pleased to have Wifi, frankly, although at one point I found myself reflecting that hospital waiting rooms should have bars, they’re such grim, depressing places.

When I did eventually get seen, at around four after arriving at about midday, things happened remarkably quickly: I was taken to a room, the nurse took my details, took my shoe and sock off and at last examined my foot. I showed her my blog entry so that she had a clear idea of what happened. I was then taken to have it X-Rayed, which I must admit was rather fun. Then, after a bit more waiting, I was taken back to see the nurse to be told that nothing was wrong with my foot, nothing was broken and I was free to go home.

To tell the truth, my foot feels fine this morning. I can walk as normally as I ever do. A day sitting in my chair, resting it yesterday probably helped. Even so, it was worth going to check it out. The NHS may be at breaking point, overused and understaffed, but we should all be bloody grateful that it is there. That I can get into such scrapes and be able to go and get myself checked over, without having to worry about paying, is frankly the very definition of a modern, civilised society. It may have taken an entire afternoon, but it was good to be reminded how great the NHS is.

Mind you, it’s also good to be able to blog about such things, getting my thoughts out onto the internet – it makes explaining stuff so much easier.