I am, of course, currently sat at my desk in my comfortable little flat in Eltham. As much as I like it, it is where I have gone to bed, woken up and spent most of my time for the last three and a half years or so. Largely due to the pandemic, my recent world has been confined to London and it’s South-Eastern quarter; and as great as I find the metropolis, a growing part of me is now yearning to go out into the world beyond it.

However, at last today that yearning ends. In a couple of hours, John and I will be heading to the airport en route to Spain. Our bags are around me, packed and ready to go: this is now the calm and quiet before the adventure begins, and I feel a wonderful buzz of energetic anticipation. What will we see? Who will we meet? I can’t help remembering all the incredible places I have already been to – India, Crete, Paris, Australia – and wondering what we’ll experience this time which will add to such fabulous journeys.

To travel, in my opinion, is to live. The very act of going out into the world, exploring it, seeing new places, brings with it a joy like no other. Staying in one place, waking up in the same bed every day, gets so monotonous that the only way to wake yourself up is to set off to somewhere new, somewhere exotic. I intend to record my adventures here if I can, although it might not always be possible to get online. Nonetheless, I’m sure I’ll soon have plenty of exciting new things to write about.

As someone who loves Tolkien and who has an interest in physics and quantum mechanics, this really made me chuckle.

Perhaps I can be a little too self-conscious at times. Dominik and I had dinner in Whetherspoons in Lewisham last night. We were at the table in the corner, and I was sat with my back to the wall furthest from the main entrance. A few minutes into our meal, I began to notice a man sat at a table not far away, seeming to look directly at me. I tried to ignore it at first, but he continued to stare with such fixation and intent that I began to get unnerved. I told Dom about it, who of course said I should ignore it. Yet it began to really irritate me: did this guy have a problem with me, my dribble, or how I ate. I was about to take it up with him or report it to the staff, however, when I realised something. On the wall, just over my left shoulder, was a wide-screen TV showing the evening news. The poor guy wasn’t looking at me at all but simply watching TV.

Needless to say I instantly told myself to shut up and not to be so paranoid.

I still keep an eye on my old special school’s Facebook page. I like to keep track of what’s going on there, and to see how the old place is changing. Of course, a lot seems to have changed in the twenty years since I left: from the look of it, they now support a lot more students with learning difficulties, whereas when I was there, there was a much higher proportion of kids with just physical disabilities. Just now, for example, I came across pictures the school had posted of students being taught the safest way to cross a road. They were stood at a replica pedestrian crossing painted onto what looked like the old playground. I couldn’t help letting out a cynical little chuckle: I can’t remember having such lessons. Indeed, if only those teachers could see me now.

Of course, I cross roads every day in my powerchair, many times a day. What amused me was, like most urbanites, I find that the rules soon go out of the window. It isn’t so much a case of ‘stop, look and listen’ here in London, as much as a situation of ‘cross when you get the chance, and don’t worry about the consequences!’ Of course, pedestrian/zebra crossings are certainly good places to get across a road, but that assumes all the drivers stop for you like the law says they should!

I find myself wondering whether the students in the pictures I saw will ever get a chance to lead an independent, urban life like mine; or whether, when I was their age, I could ever have imagined that I would one day be living on my own in one of the world’s greatest cities, crossing roads, getting on and off busses, living life just like everyone else in this amazing place. To be honest as a youngster I couldn’t imagine ever leaving our old family house, so ultimately the kids now at my old school have just as much potential as I had. If that is the case, though, they will probably need much more advanced lessons in how to cross roads. They may be being taught the basics – things which every child needs to learn – yet I really hope that one day they feel the thrill of life that I now do, a feeling which no school lesson can imbue.

I just came across this on a science-related Facebook group, and can’t help noting how salient and telling it is of current culture. We live in strange times.

If anyone reading this is as concerned as I am with how sickeningly racist and downright xenophobic the Tory party is becoming, I would really recommend you watch this newly-released Owen Jones video. I don’t want to paraphrase Jones because he explores the issue perfectly well, but the details he talks about really are shocking. For one, he says the Home Secretary Suella Braverman is now championing the views of Douglass Murray, an out and out bigot and islamophobe who apparently thinks that immigration has turned London into a ‘foreign country.’ It’s a disturbing, unsettling watch, especially for those who value living in an outward-looking, welcoming country which deserves better than to be governed by populist, xenophobic slime.

I’ve mentioned here before how often I go up to the Olympic park. I like it there, and it has become the default destination for my daily trundles. There is a lot of building work going on there, so I have got to watch the area slowly change over the past few months and years. There usually isn’t that much to note, but today I was in for a bit of a treat: the development called the East Bank has now started to open up. Five years or so ago, it was just a bit of waste ground used, I think, for temporary buildings during the Olympics. Since then, though, the park elected to build three large arts venues there, including a new base for BBC Music.

Whenever I have visited the park I have caught snippets of the three buildings being constructed. Before today, of course, the area has been a building site which I couldn’t go into; even yesterday it was still fenced off. When I went up there this afternoon though, I noticed that some of the hoardings had been removed so I could go up to the buildings.

While you still can’t go into them, I couldn’t help feeling impressed: that area, opposite the Olympic stadium, promises to be a wonderful new cultural hub for London. To be honest finding somewhere new to explore and new paths to go down today thrilled me like a new toy thrills a five year old. The whole complex felt so dynamic and new: A hell of a lot of money has obviously been put into constructing it, totally from scratch. When it is fully open the East Bank promises to be incredible. As I have said on here before, the thought that that entire area was pretty much totally derelict and forgotten until so recently staggers me, but between the shopping malls, velodromes, stadiums and now theatres, it’s hard not to be in awe of what this city can do. I have never known anywhere which is capable of such epic creation, or which can regenerate itself so rapidly.

I just had my first moment of complete astonishment of the day. A couple of days ago, I began to wonder about Sir David Attenborough again. I was curious to know whether he was up to anything. To be honest I’d kind of assumed he had retired: he’s 97 after all, and after such an incredible career who could blame him? However, I just tapped his name into Google, and came across this utterly amazing news. Far from retiring, the great man is currently filming a third series of Planet Earth. “BBC Studios Natural History Unit has confirmed that Sir David Attenborough will present Planet Earth III, the third instalment of the landmark award-winning series.”

Quite frankly I find this news jaw-dropping; it thrills me. Attenborough has done more than any other person to make us aware of the natural world, of how it works and it’s sheer beauty. As far as I am concerned, he is the greatest television presenter ever, of any subject and of any nationality. He started working at the Beeb in 1952; the fact he is still making the fascinating, beautiful programs he is known for, still educating us all about the natural world, is absolutely wonderful. Surely no other cultural personality can even come close to his legacy.

There’s no word on when the new series will hit our screens, but I can’t wait.

I can’t say I watched The Last Night Of The Proms last night, although I wish I did now. The Outists are apparently exceedingly pissed off that there were so many EU flags being waved by audience members there. I just saw a copy of a page from the Daily Fail which I was thinking about reposting here, but I don’t want to befoul my blog with anything from that rag. You should see the moronic comments though: They accuse the flag-wavers of ‘hijacking’ the night, calling it ‘utterly vulgar and disgusting’. Yet I think it’s a clear sign that most people now see Brexit as the stupid mistake it was, and want it undone as quickly as possible. Let’s hope we see more and more of this kind of thing; and if it pisses the Outist idiots who read the Daily Fail off, surely that’s a good sign.

One of the first things I came across when I turned on my computer this morning was this exciting piece of Star Trek news. It seems that I was wrong to assume that we had seen the last of Captain Picard a few months ago. Patrick Stewart has recently expressed interest in doing one final, triumphant round off to his Star Trek career. He wants to do one last film involving all remaining/surviving characters. I think this is incredible news: as awesome as the final season of Picard was, I feel one final act on the big screen would be more fitting. After all, Captain Picard is my favourite Star Trek character; like many contemporary Star Trek fans, I grew up watching Star Trek The Next Generation, so to see that crew get back together for one last adventure would be awesome. Whereas I couldn’t help being rather cautious and skeptical when it was first announced that Patrick Stewart would be stepping back into the role four years ago, especially after such a long break, the three seasons of Picard we have seen already are, I think, good grounds for optimism.

Whether anything will come of this news of course remains to be seen, but I’ll obviously be keeping a very close eye on it.

I think I have suddenly found a new band to get into. I had never heard of Ezra Collective before last night. Catching snippets of them on the Mercury Prize awards though, they sounded a lot like the Cat Empire, probably due to their heavy use of trumpets and jazzy overtones. That sort of pricked my attention, and I decided to do a quick blog entry on the similarity. Before starting to write though, I thought I had better listen to some of their music, and within a few minutes I began to feel myself getting into it. While there are a few similarities with my favourite Australian band, there are of course significant differences too. Similar styles perhaps, but different themes. While Cat Empire are all about throwing beach parties and drinking lots of rum, Ezra Collective seem more urban and all about life in London. I wonder what my friend Charlotte will say about them: it was C who introduced me to The Cat Empire in the first place, so it would be interesting to see whether she likes their new British counterparts.

I’m fast becoming a fan of Costa Coffee shops. I don’t just mean because of their coffee, although I am partial to a large cuppaccino, but mostly due to a combination of their free WiFi and ubiquity. I don’t have a SIM card in my iPad so I have to rely on WiFi when I’m out and about. Like most people these days, I don’t like being out of touch with the online world for too long, so sooner or later I start to look for a WiFi network to connect to. I get nervous about whether guys like Serkan, John or my parents have messaged me.

Luckily, you can now find costa coffee shops in almost every cluster of shops across London; they also have the advantage that, once you have connected to one of their WiFi networks, you can quickly and easily hook up to them all. That means that I don’t even have to go into the shop if I don’t have to, but often just park outside the front window to get the few minutes of web access I sometimes need. Slightly cheeky perhaps, but I promise I buy plenty of coffee in their shops when I need to.

I have just got back from my daily trundle with John today, and I must say we came across something I find utterly, jaw-droppingly remarkable.

I still have very fond memories of my family trip to America, back in 1994: we visited New York City, before going on to tour California and the west coast. Our trip included going up to Yosemite and seeing the giant Sequoias: I’ll never forget how huge and majestic the tallest trees on earth were.

That,, of course, was almost thirty years ago and I must admit I hadn’t thought about the Redwoods in a while. Today, though, John and I took a walk through a few of the parks and woods near Eltham. It was a lovely, lovely stroll: to be honest I don’t tend to go that way on my own because the paths can get a bit rough and dodgy. Paths through parks are usually fine, but heading into Oxleas or Sheperdleas wood they are unpaved and root-strewn. Today, though, following John, my eyes once again tightly fixed to his arse as he lead me through such peaceful, beautiful woodland, I felt confident that I wouldn’t come to any harm.

We were there for two or three lovely hours, exploring the woodland: I had no idea that the woods in this area were so vast. At one point we found a cafe overlooking Oxleas meadows where we had a brief snack. It was astonishing how far you could see across south London and beyond. Pressing on from there though, we went back into the woods, where we found something incredible. I didn’t notice them at first, but John pointed out two tall, majestic Sequoia trees, there in Oxleas Wood. I was astonished – I thought Redwoods only grew in California. My mind instantly went back to my eleven year old self, looking up at those trees in Yosemite. They weren’t as tall of course, but they were still recognisably Sequoias. What the zark were they doing in South-East London though?

I was amazed by what we had found, seemingly purely by chance. It just goes to show what you can find if you just go out and look, apparently even including fragments of California. We now intend to head that way again soon. London will never stop amazing me.

Apart from lunch at the Tudor Barn with my parents a couple of weeks ago, I hadn’t been into Well Hall Pleasaunce for quite a while. Of course, being on the main road into Eltham, I go passed it fairly regularly, but before this afternoon I hadn’t had occasion to go into or through the pretty little park for months. It used to be that, being about four hundred years old, the paths around the park were flagged, uneven and broken up with steps. Thus, as pleasant as it is, I tended to avoid it. Today, though, on my way home with John after buying a new manual wheelchair, we chose to break up our walk by going through the Pleasaunce. At first I wasn’t sure about the idea because of all the steps, but to my amazement as soon as we went in I saw it had been entirely flattened: the steps had either been converted into ramps, or nice new paths lead around them so that I could easily go from one level to another. I was very impressed: a lot of work had obviously recently been done to make sure a wheelchair user like myself could access all of the park. I must admit that I find the fact that the council would carry out such a renovation on such a little place very encouraging.

I got the inspiration for this from the Indian Summer we’re currently experiencing.

Just a brief note to say that, chatting with my parents online last night, they told me that something very similar to the ‘idea‘ I was waffling on about on Saturday had already been tried: The Northern Powerhouse was proposed/created over ten years ago, essentially by the Tories. It was designed to boost the economy in Northern England by improving rail links etc. I don’t know how successful it was, particularly regarding issues like public transport accessibility, but I must admit it sounds a tad more realistic than creating a giant Northern Metropolis.

I must admit that I can be a bit lax sometimes when it comes to things like post. Unless I’m expecting something specific, I tend to let letters go unopened for two or three days. I just kind of assume they are yet another bank statement which can be filed away and ignored. That’s how, this morning, Serkan told me that the letter containing my new freedom pass had arrived a couple of days ago and I hadn’t realised.

That minor error aside, today was the first day I went out with a freedom pass. Serkan inserted it into the lanyard my parents sent, which was then secured to my bumbag and put into it’s front pocket. Truth be told I still wasn’t sure whether I would need it, but I resolved to try to use it anyway, just to see if it worked and how practical it was.

I just got back from a nice long trundle up to Stratford. I took one of my usual routes, but one of my favourites. It was a good way to use a nice, sunny afternoon. Of course I took the tube back as usual, but today instead of asking the guard to open the gate, I was determined to try to do it myself using my new card.

I realise that, to most people, the simple act of getting a card out of your bumbag and tapping it on a sensor won’t sound too taxing. This afternoon, however, a queue growing behind me, I found it the most stressful, irritating thing I ever had to do: nothing, from my fingers to the bumbag zip, seemed to want to cooperate. It took ages for me to get the card out of the bag; then, manoeuvring it in my hand so the sensor could read it seemed about ten times more difficult than it should have been. Then, after about five attempts at getting the card read, once I was through the gate getting the zarking thing back into it’s pocket, including the lanyard chord, seemed all but impossible, especially when I was rushing to catch a waiting tube train.

In short, I can’t say I was impressed by the whole experience: I think I’ll stick to asking the station staff to open gates for me. But at least I have it now, so I can sort myself out on the odd occasion when there is no staff available. I just hope that doesn’t happen very often.

I have been thinking about the North-West quite a bit recently. While I wouldn’t say I was homesick, I’m becoming more and more concerned about the economic disparity between London and the rest of the country. From what I can see, the north west of England still doesn’t have anything resembling the infrastructure, in terms of public transport etc, which I’m now used to in the capital. To my knowledge bus wheelchair ramps are still manual there, so drivers have to grudgingly get out of their cabs to unfold them whenever someone like me wants to get on a bus.

Out on my trundle earlier, however, I had another of my crazy ideas: what if the north west of England started functioning as one big metropolis, akin to Greater London? It’s a massive area of course, encompassing five or six large, fairly rural counties. I’m not taking about concreting over all the countryside between the towns of course, even if that was possible. Rather, perhaps the region should act under a single authority and develop things like a comprehensive transport network. If a rail system like the DLR or even the tube was created, linking towns and cities like Manchester, Liverpool, Stoke and Crewe with a fast, efficient, accessible network, surely it would help to integrate the entire region in one big economy. Such a region could possibly be on a par with London as resources could more easily be focussed where they are needed, and much more help could be given to rejuvenate notoriously deprived cities like Stoke-on-Trent.

Of course I could be taking nonsense here. I know full well that the north west has a perfectly functional rail system. Yet one of the things I relish most about life in London is my ability to travel from area to area so easily; and one of the things I remember hindering me the most when I was living in Cheshire was the slow, unreliable bus service. The only way any area can improve things like public transport is by working as one, so it seems to me that if the entire north west united into one political entity, forming a sort of rural metropolis, then it could begin to punch with far more weight.

John and I went to watch Barbie yesterday, but I’m still not sure what to make of it. I had been looking forward to seeing it for a couple of weeks: I’d heard a bit about it, and got the impression that, despite outwardly being a kids film about a doll, the film was actually quite satirical and subversive. That made me fairly eager to go and see what the fuss was about, but now that I have, I can’t make my mind up about what the film was trying to say. It was clearly only about dolls to the extent that Animal Farm is only about farm animals. There is a lot of commentary about patriarchy, capitalism and the role of women in contemporary society. Yet beyond that, if we try to read anything deeper into it, the messages seem to get more confused. The film was clearly trying to say something about sexism, but what?

In the film, all the dolls live happily in Barbieland, having parties and going to the beach. Then, at one point, one of the Barbies and one of the Ken dolls have to travel to the supposed real world to find out why the girl playing with the barbie is becoming so sad. There, the Ken doll learns about contemporary patriarchal society, and realises that it is the Kens rather than the Barbies who should be running things. When they return home the Ken (of which there are a great many nauseating wankers) insists that they take control of Barbieland and that the Barbies should be housewives. The normal power structure is only restored when all the Barbies are told about the cognitive dissonance they have to endure as women in contemporary society, thus breaking the spell of patriarchy.

Thus there are a lot of confused and confusing messages in this film. At one and the same time, it purports to be a critique of modern, capitalist patriarchy; yet it also upholds it by saying women should enjoy being fun loving and glamorous. There is also a lot of weird, weird shit about the executives from Barbie manufacturer Mattel charging around the place which didn’t make much sense: was that a lampoon of capitalism, a defence of it, or did the filmmakers just want Mattel to appear just because they were funding the friggin’ film?

I left the cinema yesterday afternoon feeling like I had just been on some sort of acid trip. I didn’t know what the film I had just watched was about, and still don’t. It was as though the film was trying to say too much, do too much, and as a result essentially said nothing. Mind you, at least it was an improvement on the lobotomy of a film we saw last week. Of course, I now want to read up on what other critics are saying about it, particularly guys like Kermode. Perhaps I’m missing something; perhaps I need to rewatch it. Yet, while being a children’s film, Barbie truly is a puzzling film: It’s obviously trying to say a lot, but the question is, what?

The Beeb is currently going on about the closure of manned ticket offices at railway stations, and I suppose that, as a disability access issue, I should probably say something about it. Truth be told, I don’t use national rail much these days, and haven’t had to buy a rail ticket in years. I use London transport and the tube quite a bit of course, and wrote about my issues with oyster cards etc a couple of weeks ago (Incidentally, the Freedom Pass I ordered still hasn’t arrived for some reason). Yet when it comes to national rail, I haven’t had that much experience recently. When I was first going out with Lyn and coming to visit her from Crewe, however, I used to buy tickets from the offices: I used to talk to a member of staff there using my communication aid, where I could buy my ticket and arrange the wheelchair access ramps I needed. My concern is, without manned stations, these days that would be much harder. There is no way I could use a ticket machine, so I would need to bring a personal assistant with me to do it for me, or just order the ticket online. But then, how would I arrange ramps and make sure someone is there to put them in place when I need to get on and off the train?

To be honest the whole idea puts me off using national rail. That’s a shame, because the whole system used to be great: I remember how exuberant I felt when I first found I could use trains without having anyone with me – it was a huge step forward towards my independence. Now, though, trains might once again be out of bounds, not just for me but for many people with disabilities.

I seem to have developed a fear of the sight of kids, at least in my local area. Well, perhaps it’s not quite fear; more a mixture of concern and animosity. Whenever I see a group of school-age young people in the street when I’m out and about these days, my adrenaline and heart rate begin to rise and I automatically brace for trouble. School kids, particularly teenage boys in groups trying to impress one another, shout abuse at me or take the piss so often that I can’t help starting to worry. Almost unconsciously I prepare myself to shout something back at them.

It happened just now: coming back from quite an early coffee, I saw two young boys across the street from me coming in the opposite direction. I instantly felt my mood change as if I assumed they were about to shout something nasty and try to provoke me. Of course, this time nothing happened and everyone passed quietly; but I just hate the way I now react. I hate the fact that I’ve had so much trouble from these chavvy little shits, I now assume that all children will cause trouble. I don’t see why I have to put up with young people taunting or abusing me just because I use a chair, but at the same time I know it’s wrong for me to assume that they are all just as vile.

Bank holidays are usually quiet, soporific affairs for me, spent at home on my computer or watching TV. Yesterday, however, was another matter altogether.  John stayed here overnight on Sunday, and it was he who came up with the fascinating idea of going to the Notting Hill carnival on Monday. Of course, me being me, I had already considered going up there on my own on Sunday, just to check it out, but both my parents and Serkan had put me off the idea as far too risky. Going there with someone, seemed another matter.

As I’ve said here before, getting into central London is now easier than ever thanks to the Elisabeth Line, so at about midday yesterday J and I headed to Woolwich, getting off at Paddington. We were there in about twenty minutes, and almost immediately were hit by a wall of sound and human energy unlike anything I had ever encountered. It was like that part of London had lost it’s mind! The streets were closed to traffic. and thousands upon thousands of people were walking about in all sorts of extravagant costumes, banging drums, singing and hooting horns. I was automatically mesmerised: I loved it – London had done it again, and showed itself to be the wonderful, vibrant, intoxicating place I know it to be.

If I’m honest, though, I must admit there were times yesterday when I grew quite scared. John and I walked through the crowds for a couple of hours, and I was scared to death of loosing him. I don’t know that part of London very well, and loosing contact with my friend amid all those people would have meant I would be in a lot of trouble. Thus I spent most of yesterday afternoon piloting my powerchair, concentrating rigidly on Johns arse as he lead me through the streets of Notting Hill. Mind you, it wasn’t that bad a view: there were many, many more arses to look at, sat at arse-hight in my powerchair, most far rounder and far more exposed than John’s!

One way or another I managed to stay with John all afternoon, and together we had a good tour of Carnival. I was struck most by how loud it was: some of the music was so loud, so throbbing, I could barely hear myself think. Yet that was the point. It was a party – a celebration of Caribbean culture, and indeed wider, human culture too. There were so many happy, charming people there that I couldn’t help being blown away, in spite of the noise.

After two or three hours up there (I quickly lost track of time) John and I went to meet Mitch, who we had planned to hook up with earlier, but he got delayed. The rest of the afternoon was spent in a far quieter spot, talking over some beer. As the evening drew in, I realised what a wonderful day it had been. I had never seen London like that before, closed to traffic and transformed into an intoxicating maelstrom of humanity. I resolved to go back next year, possibly in costume. I also couldn’t help wondering whether Lyn had ever been to carnival; I don’t think she did and she never mentioned it, but L would have loved it.

Due to a slight delay on the tube we got back here quite late but all in one piece. I had somehow survived the day! More to the point, the metropolis had once again made my jaw drop at all it’s richness and diversity; it had once again given me an experience which I can never possibly forget. Notting Hill carnival is about migration, about welcoming people coming here not just from the Caribbean but all over the world. It is a celebration of the spirit of diversity and inclusion which London is founded upon. For all the crowds and noise, for all the stress of keeping sight of John’s arse, I loved it, and now can’t wait until next year’s.

The only question is, how. I know Shatner’s Kirk was shown to have died in Star Trek Generations (1994), but all it would take is a little clever writing to put Starfleet’s most iconic captain back in his chair.

One of the bits of news which has puzzled me the most this week, although I have been slightly wary of writing anything about it for fear of saying anything out of line, was the news that India has now landed a spacecraft on the moon. Of course I think it’s wonderful that humanity as a whole is exploring space; any country surely has a right to have interstellar aspirations. Yet, not that I want to tell any country how to run itself, or think that we in the ‘developed west’ have a right to dictate to those in the ‘undeveloped east’, but I must say that countries like India have huge infrastructure and poverty issues which surely need sorting out before they spend billions of pounds/dollars/rupees launching anything into space.

When John and I visited India five years ago, I remember seeing gigantic undeveloped, dirty, poverty-stricken areas crying out for investment: people were living as they had done a century ago, in dilapidated housing, walking along unpaved roads. Yet between such areas, there were pockets of sleek, modern buildings: they were the areas which the Indian government obviously wanted us to see. To be honest it struck me as quite perverse that any government could spend so much developing such small places while leaving the rest of the country and millions of people to rot. This space program is obviously a vile continuation of that attitude: the Indian government want the country to look like a modern superpower so they start firing probes at the moon, hoping nobody notices the huge social and infrastructure problems which surely should have been it’s priority.

Early yesterday afternoon I was passing through Greenwich Park when I noticed that they were setting up for some kind of event next to the statue of Woolfe. At first I thought it could be some kind of filming, so I decided to take a closer look. I’m always interested in watching films being made of course, but it turned out to be something far cooler. Asking one of the young ladies working there what was going on, I was told that it was part of Greenwich and Docklands International Festival, and that there was going to be an aerial dance performance there the following day (today) involving an ambulant woman and a Maori man using a wheelchair.

Naturally this got me intrigued. I was told that there were going to be two performances today: one at 1pm and the second at 5.30. It occurred to me that going to watch both might be interesting, so earlier this afternoon I set off for Greenwich Park. I got there an hour or so before the performance itself, giving me time to mill around for a bit and get a good spot. Fortunately, that also meant I was able to meet the two dancers, Rodney Bell and Chloe Loftus, as well as watch their final rehearsal. They seemed almost as interested in me as I was in them, and we agreed to meet for a chat between their two performances.

A short while later the performance itself began, and I was almost instantly awe-struck. Bell was strapped firmly into his wheelchair while Loftus moved freely, and the two performed a fascinatingly beautiful duet, moving around one another both on the ground and suspended in the air. The Air Between Us was an utterly mesmerising work. I’m no dance critic, so I’m not sure I have the words or experience to capture it properly here, but it was like watching two atoms or planets orbiting one another, bouncing off each other, exploring each other. Set to quite modern, electric music, with the stunning backdrop of Greenwich Park and the Isle of Dogs beyond it, I and the audience around me was engrossed. When the twenty minute piece came to an end, there was an eruption of well deserved applause.

It was great to then give the two performers my congratulations. I thought it might be cool to show them some of my work on my Ipad, including my ‘Wheelchair Dancing’ screenplay, but I think they were pushed for time; there were also some very dark clouds gathering in the sky. A short while later I trundled back here, intending to grab some lunch and put a jumper on before heading back to the park for the second performance. The dark clouds were growing even darker though, so I decided it would be wiser to stay here than risk getting my powerchair drenched. Yet at least I managed to see one of the captivating performances, which was enough to remind me how beautiful dance can be as well as how exciting disability art is becoming.

Early yesterday afternoon, John messaged me to ask if I wanted to go to the cinema with him: he and Mitchel were going to see Gran Turismo in Peckham, and he wondered whether I would like to join them. I was in two minds about it at first: it would mean rescheduling dinner slightly, and, to be honest, from the trailer John sent me the film didn’t look great. Yet cinema is cinema and friends are friends, so after a few minutes I changed my mind and took him up on his suggestion.

Getting to Peckham was rather simple. I got there early, giving me time for a little look around. Frankly, Peckham seems like a bit of a shithole, but an interesting shithole. Many of the buildings along the high street look quite aged and run down; but if you look closer you can see there’s quite a bit of money in the area. It’s as if there are fragments of modern, stylish, swanky London amid a London from forty years ago. It also struck me as very cosmopolitan, and I told myself to go there again soon for a closer look.

As we had arranged, I met John and Mitch at five outside the Peckhamplex cinema. That gave us time for a quick walk, chat, and beer at the Peckham Levels, a multistorey car park converted into an arts venue where I once met Charlotte. Then, an hour or so later, it was time to go and watch the film.

It soon became clear that calling Gran Turismo a film was being far too kind: ‘frontal lobotomy on a screen’ would be more accurate, sadly. After watching the trailer I had decided to give it the benefit of the doubt: it’s core concept of a kid who plays racing computer games becoming a racing car driver seemed tenuous at best, but perhaps there would be fragments of self-knowledge or irony that would redeem the film. Unfortunately not: Gran Turismo is a pile of nauseating, cliched crap. Even if we put aside the idiocy of the idea that a so-called ‘gamer’ would ever be allowed anywhere near a racing car costing hundreds of thousands of pounds, the narrative is so riddled with saccharine, trite cliches and plot points so far fetched and stupid that it insulted one’s intelligence that it made me cringe. The way that the film tried to morph actual motorsport with the aesthetics of video games, as if they are somehow on the same physical or cognitive level, struck me as especially irritating and even patronising. It became hard to watch, and in fact the three of us left the screening before the end.

To be honest I was gobsmacked that such an awful, awful film could ever have been made. But of course, the whole thing was little more than an advert for a video-game, designed to glamourise gaming and flatter ‘gamers’ into thinking that they are more important and skilled than they are. It was an ad for Sony, pumped up into a ninety minute waste of time. If this is a sign of the way film is heading, then all cinephiles must despair: film is a fascinating, great, rich art-form capable of exposing humanity for all it’s beauty and depravity. But now it is being used to sell video games, insulting our intelligence in doing so. If this commercial, bullshit-strewn shyte is a sign of what is to come, then film really is dead.

If this is genuine – and I really hope it isn’t, but have a nasty feeling it is – then it’s surely a sign of the end of human civilisation.

Can humanity get any more moronic? Mind you, I do feel rather sweaty.

A couple of weeks ago I wrote about how Woolwich was like an urban palimpsest: a modern area of London fast being redeveloped, but where you can still see fascinating fragments of the city’s history if you look. Of course, Woolwich isn’t the only suburb which you can say that about. Not far from Eltham is Lee Green, a small collection of houses and shops just south of Blackheath. I go through there fairly often on my way to Lewisham. It’s much smaller than suburbs like Greenwich, Woolwich or even Charlton, and indeed still has the aura of a compact little village. In fact I would even go as far as likening it to Alsager or even Swettenham in my native Cheshire: both are villages of less than a couple of thousand people, surrounded by fields.

Indeed, reading a bit about the history of Lee Green from one of the handy information boards in the area earlier, I learned that until the late nineteenth century, it was in fact a small village surrounded by fields. As you can read here, Eighteenth century maps show the area as little more than a collection of houses around a village green, surrounded by farmland and woodland. A large inn, The Old Tiger’s Head, dating back centuries, served customers coming through the village on their way between London and Dover; and in 1815 troops passed through the village en route to the Battle of Waterloo.

Such history fascinates me. Of course, the whole of London is full of stories like this, but it is only when you stop and look, when you take your time to find out about areas like Lee Green or Woolwich, that you realise how intriguing they are. Thousands of cars, busses and lorries thunder through that small area every day, around the roundabout which was once the green, oblivious to what was there a century or two ago. Yet to me, such areas are what make London so rich. It is a metropolis of thousands of such smaller spaces: all unique; all with their own fascinating histories; yet all coming together to form one vast, dynamic metropolis. London is a place where villages amid fields have grown and been absorbed into one vast, vibrant space, while retaining their history and diversity. That is what I find so fascinating, so intriguing, so engrossing about it, for what better metaphor could there be for humanity itself?

I think I have written here before about how irksome I find it when people who are capable of walking up stairs use lifts, or when prams take up the wheelchair space on busses. Today, though, I think I will add a third irritation to that list. I have recently found that it really gets on my nerves when, waiting at a pedestrian crossing, someone comes and presses the button to activate the traffic lights when I have already pressed it. I don’t know why, but it seems so condescending: they seem to assume that I don’t understand how traffic lights work, and so need to do it for me.

Out and about today, for instance, I was waiting patiently at a pedestrian crossing, the button pressed, when a woman came and reached over me to press it again. Could she not see the “wait” sign was lit up? The way that she reached over me, her arm in front of my face, without saying anything, felt almost invasive. In that moment I felt like shouting my head off at her that I had pressed the button, that I knew how pedestrian crossings work, that I wasn’t five and that I had zarking masters!

Of course I didn’t though. I just kept quiet and crossed the road. To say anything would have been pointless. Yet every time this happens – and it happens irritatingly often – it feels like people are making assumptions about my ability to live my life and get around the city. They assume that I don’t know how pedestrian crossings work, or that I can’t press a button. I know I’m probably overreacting, but would you not feel just as patronised?

Yesterday afternoon I had an idea. (Very) long term readers might recall that I once began to think about the relationship between Lacanian philosophy/psychoanalysis and the use of communication aids. How can one properly constitute yourself as a person if you cannot physically access language / the Symbolic? I was mulling this over again yesterday, and it struck me that it would be awesome if someone made a film in which the South Park characters Timmy and Jimmy were seen discussing such ideas. Both characters are often dismissed as ‘retards’; comic, often derogatory stereotypes of disabled people. Wouldn’t it be cool if they were in fact shown to be intelligent and astute?

I doubted that anyone would have made such a video of course, so it occurred to me to try to make it myself. Thinking about it though, it seemed to me it might be too complicated to perform any sort of conversation between the two characters, so I decided to have a go at making a short film where Timmy alone discusses Lacan. Taking the text from my original blog, last time I began to put together this short video. It’s far from perfect or well polished, but as a bit of fun I’m rather pleased with it. While I hope I don’t get any copyright issues, I find it very amusing to see a character so often dismissed as only capable of shouting his name discussing such complex ideas.

I think Walter Benjamin once wrote that the only real way to get to know a city is to walk around it: to become a subjective observer and enter into it. I would definitely agree: one can only really know a city if you live within it as one of its citizens. The only problem is, walking takes energy. No matter how fit anyone is, they can only walk so far before they get tired.

That’s why it’s much better, if you ask me, to use a powerchair. In my chair I can trundle for miles around London, absorbing all its wonderful labyrinthine diversity. Today, for instance, I had a good one: quite incredibly, today I managed to roll all the way along the Thames from Greenwich to London Bridge. It took about three hours or so, but thanks to my new incredible batteries I had no problem. For the most part the path was smooth and unproblematic, although at one point I suddenly came across a flight of stairs which I had to find my way around.

It was a wonderful trip, past all the old docks along the south bank of the Thames. There was an amazing amount of history to take in. For instance, at one point I came across the very wharf which the Mayflower departed from, carrying the pilgrims to America. At another, I had to roll along narrow paths between warehouses hundreds of years old, remnants of London’s former life as a commercial port but now immaculately restored and redeveloped.

To be honest, trundling contentedly along as I was, it came as something of a shock to see Tower Bridge roll into view – had I really come that far? The metropolis suddenly seemed much smaller than it once did. But then, that’s probably a result of getting to know it; a natural result of living in a city, of rolling around it and exploring all it’s streets and alleyways. Where London once seemed so sprawling, massive and unknowable, it now feels more compact and liveable. And where Londoners once seemed cold, defensive and distant, for the most part they now seem friendly, welcoming, and indeed charming in their own urban way. Thus Benjamin was right: you can only really know a city if, like the flaneur, you walk it’s streets. The only way I have got to know London is to roll around it in my powerchair. In a sense, then, I am a wheeled flaneur.

Something really weird is currently happening. After posting my entry earlier, I watched a couple of Youtube videos before taking myself to the shop for the evening’s supplies. Coming back, though, I noticed a helicopter over the collection of houses and flats where I live. That’s nothing too unusual – helicopters fly over fairly frequently on their way to places. I then noticed, though, that this helicopter wasn’t going anywhere: it was flying in circles and weird patterns over the houses, at an altitude of two or three hundred metres. I thought it might even be trying to land somewhere nearby. Intrigued, I decided to stay outside and watch for a bit, as I still have a liking for helicopters.

I assumed it would fly on after a few minutes, but I watched it for half an hour and it was still flying in the same strange patterns. In fact I still think it’s up there. It might be a police helicopter searching for something or someone, but then wouldn’t there also be police down here on the ground helping it? It could also be a pilot being trained, which could explain the odd flight patterns; but I don’t think such lessons would be held above a residential area like this. It’s all very curious, and I can’t help imagining that something clandestine or secretive might be involved: Who knows, maybe Double O Seven himself is up there. Of course it’s probably something much more mundane, and if anyone has any ideas about what it could be, please leave a comment.

Just as an update to this entry from a few days ago, I have now been issued a freedom pass and should receive it in a few days. After last week’s debacle, I trundled down to Woolwich town centre on Monday in order to sort it out. I still don’t think I’ll actually need it much, and indeed have been using the busses and tubes since last week without needing one, but at least now I’ll have one if I come across any more unmanned barriers. My parents have even got me a cool lanyard to put it into. It might be as much use as a chocolate teapot given how rarely I’ll need it, but I suppose even chocolate teapots are useful once in a while.

I had lunch with my parents earlier. They were here for one of their usual visits, just to check on me and that I hadn’t damaged anything too badly. It was great to see them of course. At one point, however, the subject of yesterday’s blog entry cropped up. Just as Serkan had when I showed the entry to him, Mum and Dad asked why I had reacted at all – why hadn’t I just ignored the woman, if I found what she did that offensive? Well, I did: I didn’t say or do anything at the time, but just carried on drinking my coffee. It was only later that I decided to write about what had happened on my blog.

I knew full well that trying to make an issue about it in the cafe would only have caused problems; it would have been pointless, especially given that I wasn’t totally certain of the woman’s intent. On the other hand, I think it is pretty vital that I write about things like that here on my blog. Only people in situations similar to mine will experience such issues. No ‘normal’ person will be shunned like that, or know what it feels like to be sneered at like something disgusting. That’s why I think it is essential that I record things like this, because only then can I tell the wider world what life is like for me. Thus, while I could easily have ignored the whole episode and forgotten about it, I think I have a duty to tell everyone about things like this.

I know I have written about incidents like this on here before, although not for quite a while. I was in Costa earlier, just for a cappuccino. I just go there once or twice a week: the staff there are friendly, and now know my coffee preferences quite well. I was sat in my usual spot, on the bench seat which runs along one side of the cafe, eating a cheese toastie. A few minutes into my meal a lady came to sit next to me. Not that it matters, but she was wearing a tight headscarf, and I would guess she was from North Africa. She sat down, but looking to her right she saw me and immediately got up again to go to another table.

I couldn’t help feeling extremely hurt: she didn’t say anything, but looked at me with such distain; the way she changed seats so soon after seeing me made me feel like she thought I was somehow contagious. I know that she may not have meant it that way, but when things like this happen I can’t help but feel hurt. It may have been some kind of cultural misunderstanding on either of our parts of course, but I’m sure anyone else would have felt just as hurt. Do I really smell that bad? Do I look so filthy? Would she have walked away so contemptuously if I wasn’t drinking my coffee through a straw? As I said, similar things have happened to me before, but such behaviour always makes me feel really unwelcome.

I think I need to share this here today, simply because the two-faced hypocrisy is so gut-wrenching. For Braverman to act so callously towards immigrant one moment, and then to try to pretend she cares for their welfare when a tragedy occurs, truly is sickening. I suppose it depends who she thinks is listening and who she wants to appeal to in a given moment, but that’s Tories for you.

One of the things I love most about London is it’s paths. I think I’ve written here before about how I love trundling along the footpaths around the city, just to see where they might lead. I don’t just mean the pavements along the roads of course, nor the paths through the many beautiful parks; but the lots of little paths and alleyways behind houses and between roads which just beg to be explored. And then there are the epic paths along the north and south shores of the Thames, as well as along the capital’s smaller rivers and canals, which I can spend hours following in my powerchair.

Today, however, I was struck by a suggestion I really need to make. Most of the city’s footpaths are wonderful: clean and well maintained. One thing they could really do with, though, is rain shelters. Every two or three hundred meters, there ought to be little shelters where people can take cover if it suddenly starts to rain. We all know what the weather is like around here: one minute it can be bright and sunny, and the next it can be bucketing it down. Out and about today, trundling along the river, I was enjoying the sunshine when it suddenly clouded over, and within five minutes I was looking for cover to try to avoid getting soaked. When I’m going along roads I usually head for bus shelters, but along footpaths it’s more of a problem. I can’t let my chair get too wet as it shorts the controller. Luckily I found a little bridge to hide under, but I wish there were some kind of small shelters dotted along footpaths, just in case it starts tipping down.

A couple of days ago my parents flagged this video about Ealing up for me. I knew almost nothing about the area, but from what I saw it looked interesting. I was especially taken by what I saw on the video about Ealing Studios. Checking the map, I saw that Ealing was conveniently on the Elizabeth Line, so I resolved to go that way soon.

That, then , is where I’ve just come back from. I was wondering where to head on my daily trundle earlier, and Ealing seemed the obvious answer. I now feel I know east London fairly well, but have yet to explore much of its west. Thanks to the Lizzie Line though, getting from one side of the city to the other is now easier than ever, and just over an hour after leaving home I was there

Ealing, then, is a lovely little suburb. It was fairly quiet, although that may just be because it’s a Sunday. There is a well stocked shopping arcade which is probably fairly new, but I was especially taken with Walpole Park. However, my day was made when I came across Ealing Studios: I could feel the cinematic history in the air.

Truth be told I never intended to stay that long. Today was just about establishing the feasibility of getting there. Now that I have established that getting there is so straightforward though, I now want to do a bit more research into exactly what films and tv programs were made at Ealing, when, and whether you can see much of the local area in them. Then I can go back and explore a bit more.

I must be one of very few Londoners who doesn’t actually own an Oyster Card. I have been living in the capital for thirteen years now and use public transport quite regularly, but I have never needed one of the payment cards ordinary Londoners use to get on to tube trains and busses. Bus drivers just put out their ramps for me of course, and tube station staff just open the gate without me having to produce anything. Because as a disabled person I travel for free, it usually isn’t an issue.

However, there is a problem when it comes to Woolwich DLR station. Most Docklands Light Railway stations are small and don’t have passenger barriers; and the larger ones which do, like Stratford, are always well staffed. Woolwich, though, has barriers at both its entrances, but there is rarely a member of TFL staff waiting at either.

This causes me quite a problem.

I just got back from a very nice afternoon with John. We went up to the Olympic park together, and whiled away the afternoon, walking, chatting and making plans. After a late but tasty lunch, we both got the DLR back, John getting off at Canning Town where I continued on to Woolwich. I was still full of Sluvaki Wrap so I was in a good mood, but as usual there were absolutely no staff at the DLR station. I looked everywhere but couldn’t find anyone to open the barrier for me. The afternoon had been going so well until that point. I waited and waited, but nobody appeared.

In the end two lads kindly forced open the barrier for me, but without them I think I would have been there all night. Such incidents make me rethink whether I need an Oyster Card after all: using one would be difficult as I would need to open my bumbag, take the card out and somehow tap it onto the detector. That wouldn’t be easy for me, which is part of why it has never seemed worthwhile getting one. Plus, I would never need to top it up as all public transport is free for me anyway. But do the rare occasions when I need one, such as at Woolwich DLR station, make getting one necessary, given that if I don’t I would either have to force my way through the barriers, possibly damaging my powerchair, or spend the night at the station?

It seems appropriate on my physicist brother Mark’s birthday that I direct everyone to this amazing news. “Scientists near Chicago say they may be getting closer to discovering the existence of a new force of nature. They have found more evidence that sub-atomic particles, called muons, are not behaving in the way predicted by the current theory of sub-atomic physics.” They say this implies a new, previously unknown, fifth force on physics. Of course, I won’t try to comment much on this because I can’t pretend to understand it, but I nonetheless think this is pretty incredible. As the BBC article explains, this could be a complete paradigm shift for physics, and could shed light on things which are currently alluding us such as Dark Matter and Dark Energy. I’m not sure what the implications of this would be for the area Mark works in, String Theory, but I’m sure, like most physicists, he will be very excited about these discoveries.

Happy Birthday Bro.