Could I Change Someone’s World?

For the last couple of weeks I’ve had a question rattling around in my head which won’t seem to pipe down. It first occurred to me on the day my powerchair broke down on the other side of London. Just before that catastrophe, I had been once again thinking about how wonderful it is to live in this fantastic city, and about how it all stemmed from the fact that I met Lyn. Had I never met her, I simply wouldn’t be here: I would never have moved to London and got to know this incredible metropolis. The chances are that I would still be living in Cheshire with my parents, and the notion that I could ever live in my own flat in south London would still seem absurd, or even frightening.

Meeting Lyn put an end to that: during my ten years living with her, not only did I start to get to know London, but I also learned that I didn’t need to rely on the cozy support structures which I had been used to since childhood. My world changed from a quiet, conservative two-storey Cheshire town to one of the greatest, most vibrant metropolises on earth.

When I think about it, it’s hard to sum up just how different those two existences are. Here I am, exploring this city, flitting on and off busses and tube trains, trundling around shopping malls and skyscrapers and royal parks; going to cinemas and concerts and shows, just like any other Londoner. I’m living a life which would once have seemed unimaginable. And it’s all because, around seventeen years ago, I received an email from someone called Lyn. Had that not happened, and had she not had the kindness to invite me to move in with her, zark knows how things would have turned out. That is not to say that life before Lyn was bad or uncomfortable; but that meeting Lyn took it in an energetic, thrilling, previously unthinkable new direction. She showed me what is possible.

What I find myself wondering now though, is could I one day make the same sort of difference to someone else? Could I change someone’s life as fundamentally as Lyn changed mine, and bring as much joy, wonder and potential for awesomeness into someone’s life as L brought into mine? I profoundly hope I can: It seems only fair, after all. The only question is, how?

disability life mental-health travel writing

Cheap Powerchairs, Silly Badges and Metaphorical Shoe Polish

The metaphorical shoe polish merchants must be doing a fucking roaring trade! I know I shouldn’t be so cynical, and I know I shouldn’t make assumptions about people, but the number of people now zooming around in powerchairs who didn’t previously use one has now really, really started to piss me off. Only a few years ago, I might have encountered, say, one fellow powerchair user a week on my trundles around the metropolis; yet I now come across several each day. It would be fine if the people using them had an obvious physical disability, but the wierd, antagonising thing is that they appear perfectly able.

This morning, for instance, I rolled up to a bus stop in Kidbrooke. It wasn’t the bus stop I usually use, but I’d decided to take a different route today. Coming up to the stop I noticed that there was already a guy in a powerchair there. The thing is, it was one of those cheap, new, flimsy kinds of chairs which I would probably break within ten minutes. The kind of chair which you can now buy in one of the fast multiplying high street mobility shops, but which anyone who has grown up using a powerchair for their day to day lives simply wouldn’t use. From the way he used his hands and arms he was obviously perfectly dexterous and didn’t have anything like muscular dystrophy, and the way he spoke to me to ask which bus I needed was perfectly clear. The fact he had badges with the LGBTQ flag, as well as one saying “I am autistic” on his bag strap, together with a streak of dyed pink florescent hair, made me suspect that he was one of the growing number of people who seem to claim membership of any minority they come across.

Again, I know it’s wrong to make assumptions about people, and he might well have had some hidden physical disability; but if I’m right about this guy, I hope it’s understandable why I find such sociocultural bandwagon jumping so provocative. More and more people seem to be identifying as disabled simply because it is politically fashionable. Yet being disabled is not cool. It is often hard and cruel: it is being sent to a special school and receiving only the most basic of educations; it is watching your disabled friends die one by one; it is getting mocked by kids in the street. The people I’m talking about will know nothing about such experiences, yet have consciously chosen to start identifying as disabled because just being straight, white and able-bodied is too privileged these days. Frankly, the notion that some people are claiming to be disabled when they previously would not have is as offensive as when white actors used to daub their faces with shoe polish in order to play black characters.

These days though, everyone seems to need to belong to one minority or another, so when people see guys like Lost Voice Guy or this bitch on YouTube (another prime example of this abject trend), they suddenly decide they have a disability too. If you’re not black, gay or transgender, being a cripple has become fashionable. I know I have gone over this before on here several times, and I’ve tried to look at it positively, but I can’t help finding this truly galling: it seems to make a mockery of disability and what those of us with actual disabilities go through. It reduces a huge part of who I am down to a mere cultural fad. It renders all my experiences as a disabled person, from my chair breaking down miles from home to being treated like an infant whenever I go into a new shop, into nothing more than a badge on a handbag strap.

People seem to be just hopping into cheap shitty chairs bought in high street shops and claiming to be disabled, if not because it has become culturally fashionable, then at least for more and more tenuous reasons. In doing so, those for whom being disabled is now apparently just a trendy lifestyle trample on and mock a large part of who I am. Would you not be appalled if such a big part of your identity was turned into something so frivolous as a sociopolitical fashion?

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Pavements, Powerchairs, and Jaw-Dropping Kindness

To be honest yesterday afternoon for me was long and frustrating, mostly sat stuck going nowhere on a pavement in my powerchair in Kensal Green. I had headed that way to try to explore the area, and hopefully find a new way to the old family house in Harlesden. It looked straightforward enough on the map: take the Elisabeth Line to Paddington, follow the canal west for a bit, then turn right. I didn’t think it was that far, and I’ve been wanting to start to explore that part of London for some time.

It had been going rather well and I had nearly got there, when my chair suddenly came to a juddering stop. It has done it before: the power lights start flashing, and it refuses to move. Of course I immediately started to panic: without wifi, I couldn’t contact anyone, so I was stuck. Fortunately – and I can’t believe my luck with this – within a minute or so a young woman came the other way along the pavement. She asked if I needed help, so I explained the situation to her.

Remarkably, she then spent the rest of the afternoon with me, making countless phone calls, including one to my parents, and eventually arranging for a wheelchair accessible taxi to pick me up and take me home. The young lady, who introduced herself to me as Agatha and had a violin case as a backpack, didn’t know me: she didn’t have to do what she did, but acted out of pure, jaw-dropping kindness.

To cut a long, frustrating afternoon short, I got home at about six last night, Artur waiting for me, slightly worried. Thanks to things like the Elisabeth Line, ferrying us at daunting speeds under London, it is easy to forget just how vast the metropolis is; only for it to come juddering back when you spend two hours in a taxi, crawling at rush hour across the city’s surface. It had been a long day, and I got home knackered. Yet, ultimately, I suppose in a way yesterday was a good day: I explored a new area, and had a new experience. Best of all, I made a new friend. It is only thanks to people like Agatha that I can live here, roaming London in my powerchair. Without her, I would have been truly stuck, going nowhere on that pavement the other side of London. I’ll always be grateful for the staggering generosity of people like her. Of course, we established contact on Facebook, so I now really hope we could meet again sometime, perhaps for a coffee, so I can thank her properly.

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Walking Frames Are Not Wheelchairs

This has happened two or three times now: I have waited absolutely ages for a bus, but when it eventually arrives, the wheelchair space is occupied, not by another wheelchair or even a pram, but by a person sitting on a walking frame. I’m sure we all know the type of frame I mean: the kind increasingly being used by podgy people, pushed forward but which you can sit on. Such devices are clearly not wheelchairs, but at least twice now have prevented me getting onto a bus, the driver having judged that the person with the walker takes priority.

Frankly, I’m becoming increasingly annoyed about this. Not only has it meant that I have been unable to get where I needed, but I frankly also suspect that it is symptomatic of something more concerning. I might be overreacting once again, but in letting such people take up the bus wheelchair space, they are effectively being told that they are just as disabled as actual wheelchair users. Or rather, it allows them to be seen as disabled by those around them. In other words, it plays into the cultural intrusion trend that I am so concerned about. It would be no problem for them to get up and sit on an ordinary bus seat, but allowing them to stay in the wheelchair space and take priority over an actual wheelchair user plays directly into their probably unconscious desire to be perceived as disabled.

I am convinced that this is a real and growing issue, and one I feel increasingly insulted by. The fact that it has started to mean that I have been unable to get onto buses perhaps means I should try to do something about it. If anything irritates me, it is people claiming to be something that they demonstrably aren’t, especially if it’s for any form of sociocultural collateral. Usurping cultural identities seems to be a perverse, growing trend; and the way that these women on their walking frames seemed to grin at me when the bus driver allowed them to stay where they were, suggests to me that this is a clear manifestation of it.

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Scum On Eltham High Street

I got angrier today than I remember being in a long, long time. It started well enough: after breakfast I decided I better get a bit more cash, so I set off for my building society up in Eltham. On my way there, though, I saw that a group of twits had set up a table and were campaigning for the Reform Party on Eltham High Street. Naturally this got my blood pumping instantly, so once I had my cash I returned. Now, I know how important it is to respect other people’s points of view, but as far as I am concerned what the people standing there today represented was nothing but the return of fascism, and it was therefore my duty to make my opposition known to them. The fact that they were selling poppies in order to appear patriotic, when the truth is they essentially represent everything which so many people died in both world wars fighting against, made me even more furious.

To simplify a long string of events, I basically spent the next two hours sitting on the opposite side of the road from the scumbags. There was nothing I could do to get them to move on, as much as I wanted to do so. London is an open, diverse, multicultural world city; the right-wing nationalist politics those imbeciles were forcing onto the public have no place here. To make matters even worse, at one point a guy with fairly severe disabilities using a powerchair joined them, the disgraces to human civilisation obviously having fooled him into siding with them in a perverse effort to appear open and tolerant.

In the end, of course, there was nothing I could do but roll on my way. As a literate, educated man I know what Reform are; I understand the politics they represent, and what will happen if we let them go uncontested. We cannot allow such idiots to drag us back into some nationalist, draconian, reactionary age. Encountering their unenlightened minions on Eltham High Street earlier today was a sickening sight. If it happens again I certainly won’t ignore them.

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Confederate Flags In Kidbrooke

I just came across something which I frankly found rather unsettling. It had been quite a successful morning up to that point: I bent my specs on my way to bed last night, so I popped to my optician in Charlton to get them sorted. That went well, so, glasses once again sitting straight on my face, I decided to come back home for another cup of coffee. Taking a different slightly more convoluted route back, I was heading through a housing estate near Kidbrooke when I saw a bungalow with the Confederate flag flying outside. To be honest I was astonished: I’m not sure if people realise what that flag means, but as far as I’m concerned it is a symbol of slavery, racism and oppression. It was a disgusting, despicable sight, and to see it here in London makes it even worse.

Needless to say, I came to a halt outside the bungalow. There was an old man sat there in his garden, so naturally I began to make my feelings known to him. He obviously didn’t understand, and said something about being a rebel. That frankly sickened me even further: the flag he was flying was not a marker of courage or rebelliousness, but the will to oppress and enslave; it is a symbol of support for the idea that one ‘race’ has the right to dominate another. It was ultimately tantamount to flying the nazi swastika*, and to see it here in London really was perverse.

I wanted to explain this to the guy but couldn’t be arsed, so I just trundled on. He would not have understood anyway, obviously being one of the growing number of people becoming increasingly political, outspoken and reactionary, yet lacking any real understanding of what they are saying. The sight of such a flag so close to home really was sickening though. I just wish the fool flying it so proudly understood what it represents.

*I make that allusion including all the hideous undertones that flying such a flag in an area decimated by the Luftwaffe eighty years ago would have.

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The Greatest Broadcaster Comes to London

It has happened again: Just when autumn is setting in and things are beginning to get a bit dull, something absolutely incredible crops up. I think I have blogged about my respect for Sir David Attenborough before. As far as I am concerned, he is the greatest broadcaster to have ever graced our screens. To think that he started making natural history programmes before either of my parents were born but is still going strong, is utterly, utterly incredible. Given that he turns a hundred next year, you would think he would be enjoying a well-deserved retirement, but you’d be wrong. I just got wind that he is set to present a new series of natural history TV programmes this winter, including one called Wild London, about the wildlife in the metropolis. As fascinated as I also am by this vast, urban microcosm, that is something I now cannot wait to watch.

“Having lived in London for 75 years, David has an intimate knowledge of the city’s natural history and there’s no better guide to introduce us to its most spectacular wildlife secrets….Whether it’s pigeons commuting by tube, snakes slithering along Regent’s canal, parakeets raiding city parks or beavers building a home next to a busy shopping centre, David reveals the incredible wild encounters to be experienced across his hometown.”

Quite frankly, that sounds incredible. Every day, when I go out on my trundles in my powerchair, I head through pretty green parks and along quiet urban streams. London is greener than you might assume, and also a good deal prettier. Over the last fifteen years, I have begun to get to know this vibrant, wild side to the capital, teaming with life. The prospect of watching the greatest of all broadcasters reveal that side of the city to the world, in the fascinating, methodical, immersive way he has always had over the last seven decades, is something I now can’t wait to see.

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Trying Out The Bakerloop

The main piece of news I have to share today is that I have ridden a bus. I realise that might not sound particularly exciting, but today I thought I would try out the new Bakerloop bus route. If you haven’t heard of it, the Bakerloop is a new express bus route from Lewisham to Waterloo station. I had been hearing quite a bit about it but on various London public transport YouTube channels, and I thought it might be worth checking out.

Of course, if I had simply wanted to go to Waterloo I would just have taken the good old Jubilee Line: a tried and tested route, and probably a bit quicker. What I found so enticing about this new bus route, though, was that it was instated as a test route ahead of a possible extension of the Bakerloo Line to Lewisham. To be honest that’s a prospect I find rather exciting: Not only would such an extension help to open up south London even more, making getting in to the city centre even easier, but presumably it would also mean that the existing part of the line would be redeveloped and made wheelchair accessible. Whenever such extensions have been created before, the obvious example perhaps being the Jubilee Line itself, the rest of the line has been updated in the process. I really think that is something to be encouraged, which is why I went to Lewisham and caught the bus earlier.

In the end it wasn’t much to write about. The trip just took about half an hour, and before I knew it I was at Waterloo station. From there I thought I’d have a little trundle along the river, the Palace of Westminster looking radiant in the sunshine, before crossing the Thames and catching the tube home. Perhaps the biggest advantage busses have over tube lines, though, is that you get to see more of the city you’re passing through, and on my way I caught a glimpse of the vast amounts of building work happening along the Old Kent Road. London is developing ever more quickly. It’s also shrinking, thanks to the initiatives like the one I tried this afternoon. A metropolis which once seemed so vast and daunting now feels increasingly accessible and homelike.

I’m sure that won’t be the last time I use the Bakerloop: the possibility that it might eventually give rise to something even more substantial really is exciting. Getting across the city is becoming easier and easier, but that slow shift towards modernity will only continue if guys like me actually try out and start to use the improvements being offered.

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Canary Wharf Turmoil

The Isle of Dogs is quite an interesting area of London, and one steeped in history. I find the fact that, forty years or so ago, that area was just a wasteland of dying, crumbling old docks, but is now an area that can’t help but remind you of Manhattan or even Dubai, fascinates me. I sometimes like going over there, just to check out what is new. I hadn’t been there for a while though, so yesterday morning I trundled across to Lewisham before getting the DLR up to Island Gardens. I assumed I’d then have a nice leisurely roll up through the peninsula, checking out the docks and skyscrapers, before perhaps popping into The Grapes.

Oh, how wrong I was! It had started reasonably well, and I had almost made it to the impressive indoor shopping arcade, when all of a sudden I began to spot flags bearing the red cross of St. George flying from lamp posts. I then began to hear shouting. Naturally this aroused my curiosity, so I followed the noise to see what all the commotion was about.

You may have heard on the national news about all the anti-migrant protests going on outside various hotels around the country. I, however, had forgotten that one of them was taking place at Canary Wharf, and I had trundled straight into the middle of it. Naturally, my political side instantly kicked in: overcoming my almost uncontainable urge to ram straight into the line of anti-migrant numbsculls, I crossed the road and went to join the far larger, louder contingent of pro-migrant counterprotesters.

Not that I want to resort to stereotyping or generalisation, but the contrast between the two groups of people could barely have been more distinct: whereas those opposed to the idea that we should welcome those coming here were a collection of a dozen scrawny flag-waving white men occasionally shouting incoherent xenophobic slogans, on the other side of the road were a group of at least forty men and women of all kinds of ethnicities and nationalities. The latter group was well organised with a public address system, through which various people were giving speeches. One I heard was about the importance of immigration to learning support, and how immigrants are vital in helping students with special needs to learn – something I couldn’t help feeling extremely touched by.

Naturally I started to mingle with the group, talking to various people. One man I spoke to even bought me a cup of coffee and helped me drink it; I still feel rather guilty that I didn’t get his contact details or offer to pay for it. In stark contrast to the clearly quite uneducated nationalists opposite, they were a diverse group of well informed, articulate people, extremely passionate about a vast array of things. It was obvious that they were there because they didn’t want the country or it’s politics to be represented by the tragically misguided hate-spewers opposite. They, like me, want the country to be open, tolerant and welcoming; not one which turns it’s back on people coming here in search of refuge, or a dystopia where anyone who isn’t white, straight or able-bodied enough is openly persecuted.

I must have got there towards the end of the event, because within an hour or so it began to break up. People began heading through the shopping mall towards the bus stop, still shouting periodically as they went. I must say, though, that if anything at this points the contrast between the two groups became even more clear: one was patient and orderly, the other increasingly antagonistic and vitriolic. As the two sets of people at last mingled together at the bus stop, I was fascinated by the distinction. It was even apparent in the very vocabulary they used, leading me to wonder whether this fracturing of society boils down to education. Again, I don’t want to stoop to stereotype, but whereas those in favouring of welcoming migrants and refugees were obviously well informed and many if not most probably had degrees, I strongly suspect those opposed were more likely to have been dismissed by the education system: they were far less articulate, misusing words. Yet they were also far angrier and more vitriolic, to thee extent that one or two even frightened me. They were clearly a group of extremely frustrated, angry men, forgotten by the twenty-first century metropolis around them, misdirecting their frustrations onto those they misguidedly perceive as incomers coming here to take what they think should be theirs. Such people deserve our compassion and pity more than anything. Interestingly, though, I found one exception in a guy talking into a camera, using fairly sophisticated language and ideas, about how ‘the right’ were being misrepresented as a bunch of thugs, and how their beliefs are actually rooted in some sort of valid logical argument. Naturally I was interested and tried to talk to him, but was unable to catch his attention. Arrogantly, perhaps, part of me longed to talk sense into him and correct him; yet I was also interested in finding out a bit more about where he was coming from politically.

My reflections were, however, altogether dashed at the very end of the event: as people were getting onto various busses, I heard one scrawny, bald, thuggish man from the nationalist group cry loudly in a thick East London accent “Don’t lick any windows!” I was naturally instantly offended; it was as hurtful to me as a racial slur, and I reported it to a group of nearby police officers. The fact that such language is being used today is frankly sickening, and to be honest tells us all we need to know about the thugs so opposed to welcoming immigrants. People can try all they like to give it a veneer of respectability, I can try to justify it as socioeducational disenfranchisement or whatever until the cows come home; at the end of the day it boils down to tribalism, xenophobia, and all the gut reactions humanity should be ashamed of.

After that, there was nothing for me to do but make my way home. So much for my nice, quiet trundle.

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Cable Car Vindication!

I’m suddenly feeling quite pleased with myself, albeit for a fairly random reason. You may remember, a year or two ago, I started talking nonsense about London building new cable cars. I was at least semi-joking, but my reasoning was fairly solid: urban cable-cars would be cheaper and easier to build than brand new tube lines, and probably cause less disruption. Well, it seems I have been vindicated, by Paris no less. According to this video, the Parisians have decided to build a new urban cable car in the south of the city, rather than extending the metro. Their argument goes that it would be cheaper and more efficient than either extending the existing metro line or implementing new bus routes. I think that is a great idea, as gliding over a city is certainly cooler than being driven through it on a crowded bus, or thundering under it on a cacophonous tube train.

Mind you, the cynical teenager voice in the back of my mind is saying that this is just a case of Paris wanting what London has: The cable car in East London glides over the Thames, connecting North Greenwich to The Royal Docks, the O2 Arena to the Excel Centre. Not only is it an efficient way of getting people from one place to the other, it is also a great tourist attraction. The Parisians have clearly looked at it and said “We’ll have some of that!” More to the point, whereas the London cable car crosses the wide Thames River, making the only alternative a bridge or tunnel, the one in Paris won’t cross such an impenetrable geographic feature. The same goes for the cable car in Barcelona, which apparently ferries people up and down quite a steep mountain. In other words, the one in Paris would be pretty much entirely for show, with no physical, practical need for it.

Such cynicism aside though, I still think this is pretty cool, and another reason to go back to the French capital in the not-too-distant future. Who knows, maybe this could be the beginning of such cable cars – even entire networks of them – springing up all over the place. Might they even be the future of urban public transport?

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Bare Bums And Blue Powder

This is resoundingly not the entry I thought I would be writing this afternoon. I thought I’d be writing a short, jolly entry about London still clearly knowing how to party, and about never having seen so many bare women’s arse cheeks, having taken myself up to the Notting Hill Carnival. My parents had warned me against going, but as usual my curiosity had got the better of me. After all, having gone to last year’s carnival and the one before it, I was thirsty for more.

It had started well enough: a nice, easy journey up to Paddington followed by a short roll. When I found the carnival itself everything seemed fine, and I was once again fascinated by all the people in all kinds of weird costumes. After watching things for a while, though, I decided to follow the parade. That was a mistake: things become more and more crowded, and less and less pleasant. It became harder and harder to move my chair. It soon stopped being fun, and the music being played around me was far too loud.

When sticky, coloured powder started being thrown around, I decided I had had enough: I went into Red Alert, getting out of the situation as quickly as possible, battling my way through the thousands of people who had gathered by then. That certainly wasn’t the predicament I had expected to find myself in.

By the time I had got back to the station I had had chance to reflect a little. To be honest it was quite incredible to see such a large area of London, usually swarming with traffic, given over to such an enormous cultural event. On the other hand, given that the carnival was supposedly a celebration of Caribbean culture, I couldn’t help wondering how much of a role imperialism or cultural appropriation had had to play in its origins. After all, Notting Hill is a white, very affluent area of London.

Such questions, however, would need to wait, as at that moment I was far more concerned about whether I could get all the blue powder off my clothes. Having returned from Paris just two days ago, it has been quite a week; but I suppose today goes to show that I really need to listen to my parents more.

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The Beguiling City

I really, really wish I knew more French. I think I’ve written about this before: the fact that I don’t know any language other than english feels hugely embarrassing to me, like a mark of extreme ignorance. I suppose you could just pin it down to the fact that special schools have other priorities- why bother teaching kids a language they’re never going to actually use? Here in Paris though, as I roll around this magnificently beautiful city, I find myself wishing I could understand what the people around me are saying or what the street signs mean.

I realise that I might have seemed a bit negative in my last few entries: too eager to criticise, as though I didn’t really want to be here. Let me assure you, noting can be further from reality. While I may have seemed somewhat eager to point out the problems or drawbacks we have come across, this was simply a case of my instincts as a blogger coming to the fore. The fact is I like that Paris: it is an exceedingly beautiful city, far more aesthetically charming than London. It’s narrow, picturesque streets draw you in, so that, in spite of its woefully inaccessible metro system and thousands of cafes with steps into them, it’s impossible not to fall under its spell.

The longer I am here, the more immersed I feel, the more intrigued I am by the city and it’s fascinating history. I love the little book shops, the streets named after writers, the thousands upon thousands of sculptures and statues; I feel so beguiled that John and I are already starting to plan our next trip here. The very streets and buildings captivate me like nowhere else. That is why I feel so sad about my lack of French, as it will always be a barrier between myself and truly getting to know Paris.

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I Can’t Just Ignore This

I stopped going to pubs a while ago of course, but one of the pubs I used to go to quite regularly was the Banker’s Draft in Eltham. It was a friendly Whetherspoon’s, and I came to know the staff and clientele there fairly well. Having stopped drinking though, I hadn’t been in there in ages. However, something happened this afternoon which I think I ought to record here: I was just going past the pub when two fairly young men standing outside of it holding pints thought it would be funny to try to take the piss by shouting ‘Timmah!’ I’d barely noticed them, but their insult made me immediately furious. I’m sorry, but I refuse to be the butt of some uneducated chav’s joke.

I stopped and told them to shut up, which they seemed to find funny. They started insulting me more, so I decided to go into the pub and ask the bar staff not to serve them. What else could I do? I absolutely refuse to just let such things slide. Ignoring it would simply allow it to continue; and I am too proud of what I have achieved to tolerate being the object of some imbecile’s ridicule.

Inside the pub, however, I was just told to calm down – it quickly became obvious that the staff had no intention of doing anything, and the two men would carry on being served. I left still feeling quite furious. Here’s the thing, though: if I had been a member of any other minority, say a black guy, and those two men had started spouting racial slurs, would it have been similarly tolerated? Would the black guy have just been told to ignore it? Would the two racist thugs have been allowed to continue to drink? Probably not, so why is it acceptable when they do it to me?

The problem is, this is happening more and more. A few days ago I wrote about schoolchildren thinking it was funny to take the piss, but I’m not just getting it from children. To be honest, I suspect it is a consequence of the rise of right-wing politics: as such reactionary stupidity has become more popular, people think they no longer have to abide by the social rules of tolerance and decency. Taking their cue from morons like Farage and Yaxley-Lennon, they think it a sign of masculinity and bravado to start hurling insults at those they assume can’t shout back. That is why it is essential that I don’t just let things like what happened this afternoon slide.

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Another Way To Camden

I have just made a discovery which I am rather happy about. I’ve described here before how fond I am of trundling along the Regents Canal. One of the areas the canal passes through, Camden, looked essentially interesting. The thing was, I never had a chance to explore it properly as, by the time I got there, I would already have been wheeling, along the canal for a couple of hours and would need to press on to get home a sensible time.

A couple of days ago though, I noticed that Camden Town had a stop on the Northern Line, and was struck by the idea that if I just got the tube there, exploring the area would become much more straightforward. This morning, then, I headed to North Greenwich tube station, intending to get the jubilee line to London Bridge and then the northern line up to Camden. The problem was, the staff at Greenwich told me that Camden Town station was not wheelchair accessible.

However, the lady helping me then started to look for an alternative route I could use, and soon found that a could take the Mildmay overground line from Stratford to Camden Road. While ramps would need to be arraigned, it would be just as straightforward as my original route. This seemed quite an innovative idea to me though, as the overground is still something I have to get the knack of.

As it turned out, it was a complete non-issue, and I was in Camden within an hour ready to explore. It’s one of those thriving, fascinating areas of the metropolis, the air full of music and delicious smells. Some of the architecture by the canal is intriguing. As soon as I got there I was enthralled; and now I know how easy it is to go back there I certainly intend to.

London, it seems to me, is constantly opening up and becoming more accessible. I’ve been living here for fifteen years, but even during that time things have improved considerably. Using the overground was once totally off limits to wheelchair users; but although I’d still personally prefer it – and indeed the entire tube network – to be completely step free, experiences like today’s demonstrate how far it has gone in the right direction. Thanks to the overground, as well as the Elisabeth Line, which I used to get home, Central London is more accessible than it ever has been. It almost feels like the city is shrinking: what once felt like a vast, unwelcoming urban sprawl now feels more and more like home.

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Coming Home To A Much Darker World

Something is very, very wrong at the moment.

I just got back from central London. I thought I would go up to watch the Lioness’ victory parade: well, you know how captivated I am by such big cultural occasions, and it wasn’t as though I had anything better to do. To be honest, though, I didn’t find it that inspiring, and I was struggling to decide what, if anything, to say about it on here. I lined the Mall with thousands of other people, just to get a brief glimpse of an open top bus going past. That’s about it, really. I couldn’t actually see much because there were so many other people standing in front of me.

Mind you, after the parade itself I treated myself to a lovely trundle through St. James’ Park and eventually to Bond Street Station, during which I once again reflected to myself how lucky I was to live in such an awesome city, where such marvellous events take place, and which has such a wonderful, ever-improving public transport system. Where else could someone like me live a life like mine? By then though I was getting rather hungry, so I headed home on the Elisabeth Line for some lunch.

Once in, I put the news on while I ate, as I often do. I was greeted with images which instantly chilled my blood: pictures of children in Gaza, starving to death; vast scenes of deprivation and destruction. The contrast with what I had just experienced could not have been more horrific. Here I am, in this cosmopolitan world city, arsing around going to all these parades and cultural events; at a time when elsewhere in the world we are watching a conflict unfold, the horror of which we haven’t seen in decades. I know I touched on this a couple of entries ago, but I honestly find this disturbing. We seem to be acting like nothing’s going on, or collectively ignoring the unignorable. I was happily eating my lunch while, on the screen in front of me, emaciated babies were crying out for food. I had just ridden a brand new subterranean railway which cost billions of pounds while elsewhere in the world entire cities are being laid to waste. Children are starving, people are suffering, war crimes of the worst kind are being committed; yet still we parade our footballers around in busses and cheer their victories as if sport is more important, or as if the wider, darker world can be put to one side while we sing songs and drink champagne. Something here is very wrong indeed.

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Help With My Water Flask

I’m quite sure everyone will be having issues in the current warm, stuffy weather. Long story short, it was probably the reason for my hospital visit a couple of days ago. I obviously got extremely dehydrated. The thing is, when I’m going out and about in my powerchair, I don’t get much of an opportunity to drink much water, and frankly it usually slips my mind. When I’m trundling around the metropolis, the fact that I need to take on water gets rather forgotten about.

To help with this, a couple of days ago my friend and PA dom bought me a great flask which we can fill with water (or ‘fake’ mojito made with alcohol free rum!) which we can put in my bag and I can take around with me. It was the obvious remedy, you must admit. The thing is, the flask now goes in my the bag which hangs on the back of my powerchair: to get to it, I now need to stop my chair, take my Ipad off my lap, get out of my chair, walk around to it’s bag, open it, and so on. For someone like me, that isn’t a straightforward task. Rather than going thirsty, then, what I’ve been doing is going up to people and asking them to help me with the bottle.

Obviously I try to stick to guys I know I can trust, such as policemen or security staff; yet what I’ve been finding is that most people seem happy to help when I explain the issue to them. They are okay with going to my bag, getting out my bottle, opening it’s suckable spout up and holding it to my lips. A lot of times their fingers get rather wet or sticky, but they usually just ignore it. I must say that I find this enormously reassuring to the extent that I thought it needed noting here. We keep hearing how we live in such fractured, ostracised times, but the spirit of human kindliness and friendliness is clearly still there if you look.

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Pride 2025

It has been an afternoon which has simply reinforced my now deep conviction that London is the greatest, most awesome city on earth. A couple of days ago, I of course heard that the annual pride march was this weekend, so I thought I would head up there to check it out. You know how fascinated I am by such big cultural events. To be honest, as I headed into central London this morning, I had my political head on, wondering how much evidence I might find of the kind of cultural intrusion or usurpation I often get so wound up about. However, as soon as I got to the pavement of Piccadilly, it became clear that such concerns were totally and utterly irrelevant. If what I saw today was about anything, it was about inclusion and the celebration of diversity; politics had nothing to do with it.

Having said that, the march started slightly late apparently due to some sort of protest, but when it got going I was almost instantly overwhelmed by the energy and vibrancy of what I was watching. Thousands of people, all cheering and whooping, but above all expressing love for one another. The procession was formed of groups of people representing organisations around London. There was a vast array, but they all had an LGBT aspect, giving the afternoon a feeling of variety and diversity, but also solidarity and unity. What better metaphor could there be for London as a whole?

Apart from the last time I went to Pride, I have never seen anything like it: the feelings of warmth, compassion and friendliness were palpable. As usual I got chatting with a few people and made a few friends. One man even gave me a fabulous rainbow cowboy hat, completely at random! At about four I headed home, but as I rode the Elizabeth line back, covered in rainbows and stickers, I decided that today certainly wouldn’t be my last Pride.

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An Afternoon In Westminster

It must be said that yesterday was quite an interesting day for me. I really don’t want to get too bogged down in the politics of it today, as to be honest I have quite complex, ambivalent feelings on the subject; but yesterday afternoon I thought I would pop up to Westminster to check out what was going on with regard to the disability rights/PIP protests. I got up there at about four, and it took me a while to find the protest itself: it wasn’t in Parliament Square as I’d expected, but in a smaller area just off it. Broadly speaking, I went up there mostly to observe rather than protest: while I certainly want to show solidarity to my fellow disabled people, the fact is the welfare budget has grown exponentially with far more people claiming disability-related benefits now than twenty or even ten years ago. That is surely unsustainable, and I think it’s a problem which needs to be dealt with, not just on an economic level but a social one too.

Even so, I wanted to go up there to try to get a better grip of the situation. The bottom line is the welfare state needs protecting. By the time I arrived I think the protest was winding down slightly, but there was still a good number of people there, with a wide range of disabilities. I got talking to a few, and as usual got complemented on my anti-Trump baseball cap. Pretty soon, though, people started to move: it seemed that they were actually going to go into the Houses of Parliament.

That would obviously be too interesting to miss, so of course I followed along and went in with them. I was quite surprised at how simple a process it was, as after a bit of queuing and bag checking, I found myself in the Palace of Westminster, being lead along the corridors to the main lobby. I found the place fascinating, with it’s ornate medieval decorations. Believe it or not I had never been in there before, and I was in awe.

However, it wasn’t long before I began to think about going home. It wasn’t just that it was getting late and I was getting hungry, but I was nervous that if a politician I recognised and disagreed with showed up, I would end up causing a scene. If, for example, Nigel Farage somehow showed up (extremely rare as his appearances in parliament actually are), there was a distinct possibility that I would start shouting or even try to attack the p’tahk. I would then probably be arrested, and the whole evening would have been spoiled. In all, then, I decided it was a good idea for me to head home, and watch how things played out on the evening news.

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No DLR Extension (This Time)

For some reason I seem to be becoming a London public transport geek. That is to say, London public transport is now one of the subjects I keep an eye on and am excited to hear news about. I want to know if there are any awesome new infrastructure projects like the Elisabeth Line in the works. I was disappointed, then, to hear yesterday that the DLR extension to Thamesmead hadn’t got the go-ahead: there was nothing about it in the Spending Review. I use the Docklands Light Railway quite regularly these days, and if you ask me it’s one of the coolest pieces of London Public Transport, as it winds it’s way over and under the east end. Best of all, all it’s stations are fully wheelchair accessible. Extending it beyond Woolwich into quite a neglected, undeveloped area of the capital could have breathed new life into it.

Then again, as many others are pointing out, that area already has a brand new Elisabeth Line station; and the fact that the DLR extension wasn’t announced this time doesn’t mean it won’t be announced in the autumn or next year. The same goes for the Bakerloo line extension to Lewisham. Such things have a funny way of getting built eventually in the capital. What I suppose I should be even more concerned about is infrastructure projects outside of the capital. The metropolis just got Crossrail, the biggest most expensive transport project in Europe; it can’t really complain. Are other areas of the UK seeing such investment? Around here I can just wheel onto a bus or into a DLR or tube station and get to wherever I want to go across the capital: I fear that that isn’t the case outside the metropolis. What about the more neglected areas of the country? I’ve heard that Manchester is getting an extension to it’s tram network, but what about Stoke-On-Trent, for instance? What about it’s infrastructure? I haven’t been there in quite some time, but from what I hear it has barely had any attention or investment in the last forty years. Such areas weren’t even mentioned yesterday. Surely places like Stoke should get the investment they need before we even start talking about yet another multi-billion pound project for the capital.

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Rain Stopped Play

I’m sorry to say that I don’t have the entry I thought I would write here this morning. I was really, really looking forward to last night. A couple of weeks ago, John suggested going to the Globe Theatre to watch The Crucible, and of course I was up for it. It is a play I studied for A-Level English, and seeing it at the awesome Shakespeare’s Globe would be a treat. I was extremely keen to see how it would be performed, and how it might be used to make a comment on contemporary American politics. I knew, of course, that it was a play about the Salem Witch Hunts, but that Arthur Miller used that history to make a statement about the Mccarthy Witch Hunts of the 1950s. Could performing the play now mean it was being used to say something about what is happening in America at the moment?

We got to the Globe about 45 minutes early, and killed the time on our Ipads (who knew seventeenth century playhouses have Wifi?). To be honest, the sky had been grey all day, so I was a bit concerned about the weather. In due course we were lead out, and I was allowed onto a wheelchair viewing platform among the groundlings right in front of the stage. It wasn’t raining, the play soon began, and we were quickly absorbed into Miller’s intriguing historic narrative. However, about half an hour into the play, the skies began to open, gently at first, then gradually heavier and heavier. I was obviously in my powerchair – allowing it’s control to get too wet would be a disaster.

Unfortunately, as the weather grew worse and John and I became increasingly soaked, we had no choice but to call it a day and head home. It was a great, great shame. I had been really looking forward to the performance, but we only got about a quarter of the way through it. I was extremely disappointed to say the least: it was a great play in an incredible venue. Oh well, I suppose seventeenth century groundlings obviously didn’t have powerchairs they had to keep dry!

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Brief Breakfasts Are Sometimes Best

Breakfast was quite brief this morning: my PA Abdul arrived at about half seven, made my coffee and toast, helped me with my shoes and socks, did another couple of things and got on his way. Obviously, things usually take a bit longer, but today Abdul had somewhere else to get to so it was quick and efficient. Frankly, that’s fine by me: I’m now fed, caffeinated and ready for the day; after writing this I’ll get in my powerchair and set off to continue exploring the world’s greatest city. Then, this evening, I’ll get back home and wait for Abdul to arrive again to cook dinner. That’s just the way I like it.

The thing is, there was a time when this would have been unimaginable. Growing up, I tended to assume that I would always need constant help; either that or I would always live at home with my parents like a perpetual adolescent. The notion that I would one day have my own flat in South London, the ability to go in and out and roam around as I pleased, choosing what I wanted to eat and where I want to go, would have seemed absurd – even scary. The assumption was that I’d be unable to do anything without the help of my parents or an able-bodied person. Fortunately, my experience living on campus at university, then moving down to live with Lyn in 2010, put an end to that.

However, many disabled people still seem to think that way. There seems to be a residual assumption, especially among people with CP, that they need a personal assistant constantly with them, and that they wouldn’t be able to function without twelve or even twenty-four hour help. Although there is an element of ‘to each their own’ to this, frankly I fail to see how anyone can live like that. These days, I enjoy being by myself and doing my own thing: in my chair I can go where I want; if I fancy a coffee I’ll pop into Costa or Starbuck’s; when I feel like lunch I’ll grab a wrap; if I need to communicate with anyone I’ll just tap it into my Ipad. Inaccessible shops and tube stations aside, I have more or less the same abilities as any other citizen. Then, in the evenings I return home and wait for my PA to arrive to cook dinner.

I think this is a healthy way to go about things. Obviously, there will be periods when I need far more assistance: when I go abroad I naturally go with someone like John. Whereas at home I can quite easily feed myself using my Neater Eater, it would be hard to carry such equipment across places like India or Morocco. The same goes for my powerchair, which is why when I go abroad I take my manual chair, and therefore require far more support. Besides, it’s always far nicer to travel with a friend.

Here at home though, living in my own flat which I can go in and out of at will, I don’t see why I would need anyone here with me more than they currently are. If I had someone with me for eight or twelve hours a day, following me around on my trundles across the metropolis, I daresay things would soon become untenable. Thus this is the way I like things; and I know that, when I need more help, it is only a message over Facebook away. I firmly believe that is the healthiest attitude to have, and that thinking you need constant support and a personal assistant 24/7 ultimately traps people with conditions like Cerebral Palsy in a form of perpetual childhood.

I find myself wishing that I could somehow go back and tell my younger self how things would turn out: how, while mum’s dinners might be both delicious and dependable, it would one day be far cooler to do my own shopping before asking my PA to cook what I fancy. That, rather than being the hostile, frightening place I once assumed it to be, the world was crammed with more wonder and excitement than I could ever have imagined. That is one of the reasons why I blog: if there are any young disabled people out there as timid as I once was, I want to tell them that, once all the basics are in order, they are ultimately just as able as anyone else.

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Not A Very Uplifting Experience

Something bloody stupid happened this afternoon. It’s one of those slow, cloudy Sundays, so I thought I would pop up to Stratford for a trundle around the Olympic park. Up there, to get from the station to the park you either have to go up a flight of stairs or use a lift, as I do. This leads to a large foot bridge over the railway station, which is the only way between the older and newer areas of Stratford. The two lifts are really over used, and over the years I have had quite a lot of trouble with them.

Today, however, really took the biscuit: One of the two lifts was clearly completely out of order, and I must have had to wait at least ten minutes for the second to arrive. When it did, though, it was already full of people who were obviously perfectly able to use the nearby stairs. What followed was quite a furore over who should be using the lift and who should not. Things become rather heated, and to cut a long, stupid story short it was around another five more minutes before I was eventually able to get into the lift. They seemed to think they had as much right to use the lift as I did, if not even more. I’m not sure what happened then: as I was entering the lift I might have knocked the door with my powerchair or something, because it then completely refused to go up to the floor I needed to get to. No matter how many times the button was pressed, the lift wouldn’t move.

After a few minutes two other wheelchair users got in. By then the ambulant people had got out to use the stairs, but those of us who had no choice gradually began to panic. For a while the zarking lift seemed broken. Fortunately things ended well, the lift started working again and finally went up to the bridge without the engineer having to be called out. As I trundled towards the Olympic park though, I found myself reflecting once again that such things would happen far less often if lifts in places like that were only used by people who need to use them; and that the episode would probably be good material for a blog entry.

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Notes On A Fixed Lift

Just to follow up on this entry from a couple of weeks ago, not that I think anyone will be particularly interested, but I’m pleased to note that the lifts at Star Lane DLR station are working again. On the whole, it must be said that I’m quite impressed at how quickly TFL seems to fix such things. I have encountered broken lifts several times in the past, only to find them fully functional upon my next visit. Obviously it just goes to show how much money there is in TFL and London in general.

In contrast, this morning on the news I heard that one of the very last potteries in Stoke on Trent is about to close. The item mentioned how the pottery industry there has been decimated, bringing the economy of the entire city with it. As someone who was brought up quite close to Stoke and who visited it regularly as a child, I can’t help being struck by the contrast between London and other parts of the country. I know that manufacturing pottery was once part of the very identity of that area, so it might be difficult to see how it could live on after this decline. But surely with the right investment, Stoke can be as vibrant a place as anywhere.

I see wonderful new things being built every day in the capital; each time I go out I find yet another highly gentrified redeveloped new area as I explore the metropolis using it’s state-of-the-art, multi-billion pound transport network (the overground notwithstanding). I know I have touched on this before, but to what extent does all this come at the expense of elsewhere in the country? Frankly, it sounds more and more like places such as Stoke are being left to go to ruin while the front facade of the nation, it’s capital, is endlessly spruced up.

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Of Parades, Backsides and Trains

Yesterday proved to be a complete waste of time – albeit an interesting one. After breakfast, I thought I’d go up to Westminster to see what all this. VE day fuss was about. After all, it’s only a few stops away on the Jubilee line, so what would be the point of just staying at home and watching it on TV? A few minutes after leaving the flat, though, I came back for a coat; the hints of summer we had a few days ago were definitely a deception.

My trip up into London proved easy enough. Once up there however, I almost immediately saw that staying at home would probably have been the better idea: the area was teeming with people, so much so that I could barely move. Watching the parade, even getting a glimpse of it, was off the cards – all I could see from my powerchair was other spectators’ backsides. I tried to move around a bit, up and down Whitehall, to try to get a decent view, without avail. Mind you, it must be said that I lost count of the number of people who complemented me on my ‘Make America Think Again’ cap.

After a couple of hours or so I gave up. I caught a glimpse of the flyover, which was fairly cool, but that was about it. With the parade over and the crowds slowly dispersing, I decided to go for a bit of a trundle up The Mall and through St James’s Park. I rather like that area of central London with it’s parks, ponds and fountains. I initially intended to find my way to Bond Street in order to get the Elisabeth Line home, but somewhat predictably I got lost. I eventually found myself at Victoria Station: at first I thought I would just ask for directions there, but then, on the tannoy, I heard that a train would be stopping at Kidbrooke. Catching it would make getting home far easier and quicker, I presumed.

I found one of the station staff and asked, using my Ipad, if I could get on that train. They duly obliged, and I was helped to board the train, only to be asked to get back off two or three minutes later because nobody would be at Kidbrooke to help me with the ramps there. I got off the train and was told to wait for the next one.

That wasn’t so bad: I just connected to the station Wifi and checked my Facebook. Twenty minutes or so later, though, exactly the same thing happened: I was helped to board the train only to be told to get back off at the last moment. Needless to say I was furious. Back on the platform I demanded to see the station manager, only to be told, rather condescendingly, to calm down. If other people can get on and off overground trains with such ease, why couldn’t I? London public transport has come on in leaps and bounds in terms of accessibility over the last few decades, so why is the overground still so shitty?

To once again cut a long story short, I got home an hour or so later: it wasn’t late, but I was hungry. I would have been home far earlier if I had just taken the tube; although it must be said that, sat in the train carriage, I was treated to some intriguing views across South London. More to the point, if I had stayed home I would also have had a much better view of the entire parade. Yet trying out the London overground is something I had been wanting to do for a while – I now know it sucks.

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A Sickening Spectacle Nobody Wants To Watch

A couple of days ago I looked up when Danny Boyle was selected to direct the London 2012 Olympic opening ceremony. The answer was 2010, obviously two years ahead of the ceremony itself. I was wondering when we might hear that Los Angeles had selected someone to direct its opening. I know it’s still some time away, but believe it or not I’m already becoming curious about what LA might do.

Such events still fascinate me. It seems to me that Olympic opening ceremonies are unique artistic events in that they draw the entire world’s attention onto one city for a few hours. They thus give a city and the country it represents the once in a lifetime opportunity to show itself off before the entire world. When else do we see incredible spectacles like James Bond meeting queen Elizabeth, a huge flotilla of boats gliding down the Seine or Eric Idle (apparently) being shot out of a cannon, before bursting into Always Look On The Bright Side of Life?

What, then, could we see happen in LA in three years time? To be honest it’s a question which I’m beginning to feel nervous about. I keep hearing that Trump is now trying to turn VE Day in the US into some kind of birthday parade for himself. Frankly, it sounds a bit far fetched but I wouldn’t put it past the self important prick. The question is then, assuming Trump is still in office in 2028, to what extent could he try to turn the ceremony into some kind of sickening spectacle of self-aggrandisement? Again I wouldn’t put it past him; but imagine how utterly repugnant it would be to see the world’s most awesome cultural event commandeered by such a vainglorious charlatan? I’m sure nobody wants to watch that! That’s why I am already so keen to know who might direct the ceremony; it’s something that I plan to keep a fairly close eye on.

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The Wonders of Windsor

The week is turning out to be quite an awesome one, thanks largely to John: great bit of cinema, a fantastic evening at the theatre, and yesterday, a wonderful trip to Windsor. To be honest I was feeling slightly cynical about even getting there at one point, as it meant taking the overground and booking ramps. Our train was slightly delayed, so I was starting to think that it could all become pretty farcical. But we got there in the end, and almost instantly I was mesmerised.

Windsor is a wonderful, beautiful place where you can almost smell the history. The town, with it’s pretty little streets, overlooks the Thames, much narrower there than at Greenwich of course. We spent a while looking around, trying to avoid crashing into the hundreds of tourists, before going up to the castle. Windsor Castle is a stunning place – if you have never visited I would recommend it. It is the longest occupied Royal Residence, and has stood for almost a thousand years. The displays in there are jaw-dropping: paintings, models, antiques, and, most fascinating of all, genuine suits of armour. I was captivated. The cool thing is, despite it’s age, it has all been made wheelchair accessible, so I was able to explore like anyone else.

John and I spent about an hour walking around the castle, before going down to Windsor park. To be honest by then I had one eye on my powerchair’s battery gauge as I really didn’t want any more catastrophes, but it was fine. Windsor Park is an incredible place, as beautiful as anywhere I’ve ever been to: there is a long, straight path we spent an hour or so walking down. John took lots of spellbindingly beautiful photos, and I stopped a few times to type a bit. By then, though, it was starting to get late, and I think we were both getting tired, so we caught the train home.

Windsor, then, is a wonderful place: not part of London and certainly feeling quite separate from the metropolis, but close enough to it that we could get there fairly easily. It was a place I had never been to, despite it’s proximity to London; but it certainly whetted my appetite for getting out of the city a bit more.

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Trying Out The Trams

This afternoon, what happened yesterday still very much on my mind, I thought I would set myself a bit of a challenge: how far could I get while using as little powerchair battery as possible? IE, could I still get out and about, without needing to actually drive my powerchair very far? Obviously that would mean sticking to public transport as much as I could, but given the alternative was staying at home on my computer all day, I was up for it.

With that in mind, I must say I just got in from a rather cool afternoon. The route I took was quite an elastic one: I caught a bus to the Royal Standard, then another from there to Elmers End in order to catch a tram. I had been intending to check out London’s tram system again for a while, and today seemed quite a good opportunity.

The tram ride was sleek and modern, if rather slow. It is essentially a tube line across south London, built on the surface due to the water-logged ground south of the Thames. If anything, I started to wonder why the line didn’t extend further east to, say, Woolwich or Greenwich, in order to link up with the tube. That would make it much more convenient if you ask me, but that’s a question for another time.

After an hour or so on the tram I found myself in Wimbledon. I haven’t been to that area of London much before, at least not for a while, so decided I’d have a brief look around. I was, however, still conscious of my need to conserve battery power, so before long I returned to the station to get the District Line. By then the system was getting crowded, but it wasn’t too bad. From Wimbledon it was a short(ish) ride up to Paddington, the Elisabeth Line from there to Woolwich, and then a bus back to Eltham: all sleek, smooth and accessible.

I don’t think I’ll ever stop being amazed by London’s public transport system. It is very much the circulation system of this thriving metropolis. It is far from perfect, but I’m happy to say it is gradually becoming more and more accessible. Today on the tram I went through places I had never visited before, even after fifteen years of living here. But the flip side of that is, while London gets all this fantastic new infrastructure – trams, crossrail, superloop – I can’t help worrying the rest of the country, especially the north, is being left further and further behind.

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The Most Unpleasant Few Hours of my Life

It is incredible how much better a good night’s sleep in your own bed can sometimes allow you to feel, and how much it can help you regain your usual perspective on the world. It has been quite a rough, nasty few days to be honest: I was considering keeping all this to myself because it was such a nightmare, but as usual the blogger in me has taken over. Basically, it started six days ago, when John and I were in Paphos. After quite a few Keo beers the night before, I woke at about 4am, feeling slightly strange and disoriented. I lay awake, unable to get back to sleep, until John woke at around seven. When he did, he passed me our hotel room’s television remote control so I could watch a bit of TV before getting up and dressed. But then I noticed something: my fingers wouldn’t press the right buttons on the control, and I could suddenly sense something was very, very wrong.

It was like nothing I had ever felt before. I had had quite a few nasty absences over the previous few days, but this was of another order. My fingers were going haywire, and it seemed like reality itself had gone out of kilter. It was rapidly getting worse. I told John, who phoned an ambulance.

I cannot remember the next few hours, so forgive me if I omit the detail; I just know that they were the most unpleasant, frightening hours I have ever experienced. Reality seemed to have become chaotic, time seemed somehow to be repeating on itself. It was horrible, and something I hope never to go through again. I must say, though, that the way in which John stood by me that day, looking after me, making sure I had the medical help I needed, was truly humbling. I doubt there are words in any human tongue which can come close to expressing the gratitude I owe him, save to say that I don’t think I would be here now writing these words, had it not been for his help. I will now forever regard him as something akin to a brother – Samwise to my Frodo, Spock to my Kirk.

We spent the day in the hospital. I had many tests, including a blood test and EEG. My memories are predictably extremely hazy. I’m not sure how many epileptic seizures I had, but it was several.* All I remember is being unable to stop my arms and legs shaking. There was talk of keeping me there overnight, but I preferred to be taken back to our hotel, as it would be easier for me to eat etc there. I’d been put on a drip of some kind, and the fits were easing off. John took me back to our hotel, and I had a fairly good night’s sleep.

That was a few days ago, and fortunately since then I have seen no sign of a recurrence, although to be honest I didn’t feel quite right for three or four days. I don’t think there is any clear cause, but obviously I must do all I can to prevent it happening again. That includes improving my diet and avoiding alcohol at all costs. I went to the local hospital yesterday to get checked, but nothing was found. My deepest regret is that this nightmare ruined what was turning out to be a wonderful, fascinating trip. Again, my profound gratitude goes out to John: not only did he once again take me on an amazing holiday, but this time he helped me through the most unpleasant few hours of my life. How lucky I am to have such a friend.

*I presume they were epileptic, given my absences are essentially a mild form of epilepsy, but of course I could be wrong

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The Greatest relief I Have Ever Felt

Yesterday was so crazily farcical that I barely know where to begin, but I think I’ll blog about it anyway just for the record, not to mention the enormous sense of relief I ended up experiencing. It all started the evening before, when John noticed we had somehow lost the power cable for my iPad. By the morning my charge was getting really low, so we decided to go buy a new cable. I use my iPad a lot, not least as my communication aid. The fact that it wouldn’t turn on at all put me in serious trouble. John asked the staff at the hotel where we could find one, and they suggested a shop not too far away.

We got to the shop perfectly fine. There was a step up into it, so John went in and got the cable we needed. He then came back out to get my credit card from my bumbag. The problem was, he couldn’t find it anywhere in my wallet.

We both began to panic, me especially: I was sure I had brought my card. I rarely use it these days, but we assumed I would need it here. We couldn’t find it anywhere in my wallet or bumbag though! I quickly began to loose my patience. Fool that I am, I must have left it back in London. We were screwed.

I was on the verge of suggesting forgetting the whole trip and going straight back to the UK, when John suggested I lean forward in my wheelchair. In a moment of jaw-dropping relief, he found my credit card down the back of my trousers. I have genuinely no idea how it got there, or how John guessed it was there. It was, though: safe and sound, and I had nothing to do worry about. The relief I felt in that moment was like nothing I had experienced before. Our trip could continue, and I hadn’t made the screw up of my life.

We spent the rest of the day enjoying more of Cyprus. We bought the charger with cash in the end, and my iPad is now fully charged. Today we are going to explore more, but I certainly plan to keep an eye on my credit card, and make sure it doesn’t disappear down my kecks again.

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Meeting the JPF (or PFJ)

Today turned out to be rather more interesting than I expected. As usual these days, I almost instantly flew into a rage when I turned the news on this morning. What happened at the White House yesterday really was repugnant, enough to make me feel I had to do something.

I looked up the route to the American embassy. Quite what I would do once I got there I had no idea, but I could sort that out in due course: Part of me just felt compelled to go and somehow insist that they immediately replace Donald Trump with someone who isn’t a gut-wrenching disgrace to human civilisation. The route seemed simple enough: jubilee line to London Bridge, and then the northern line to Battersea Power Station.

That’s how, at about one this afternoon, I found myself at the American embassy on the south bank of the Thames. Unfortunately, fool that I am, I hadn’t considered the fact that the embassy would be shut for the weekend and nobody would be there. The trip was not completely in vain though, as I got to explore a part of London I hadn’t been to before, full of dazzling new buildings.

I was just beginning to think about my route home though, when I noticed a group of protesters across the road. They were campaigning about Palestine, and were holding some kind of meeting. Mostly out of curiosity, and wanting to do something interesting with my Saturday afternoon, I thought I would cross the road and say hi. What is currently happening in Israel is a thorny, complex issue of course, which is why I try to veer away from it here; but on the whole I have a lot of sympathy with the Palestinian cause.

Frankly, what followed was rather curious. The group I had come across was made of good, kind people, clearly very concerned about what they not unjustly termed an Aphartied. I doubt any intelligent, well informed person could be anything but sickened by what Is currently happening in the Middle East. It might be simply because I rewatched The Life Of Brian last night though, but I couldn’t help being reminded of the famous scene about the Judean Peoples Front: that is to say, there was a lot of talking going on, but I fear that it will ultimately achieve nothing. It obviously helped the people there feel like they were doing something, but at the end of the day, how could a small meeting of Londoner on the banks of the Thames possibly influence such a complex, horrific conflict?

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An Unpleasant – Yet Very Lucky – Evening

I think it’s fair to say that I had a very lucky escape yesterday. To be honest I was in two minds about recording what happened yesterday afternoon here as it’s just too depressing, but I suppose a blog entry is a blog entry. I was out and about once again, this time on quite a long trundle through Bexleyheath heading up towards the river. Spring is coming, so I’m becoming eager to go out and explore a bit more.

The thing is, I have gone on quite a few long trundles recently , and it has probably had an impact on my powerchair battery. I was heading for Abbey Wood in order to get the Elizabeth line back to Woolwich and then a bus home, when I noticed my battery dropping quite rapidly. Of course I knew I needed to get back as swiftly as possible, but to be honest I felt a tingle of panic.

It took me ages to find the Elizabeth Line station, but luckily I managed to get onto a train. I traveled the single stop to Woolwich and got off the train. I was heading along the platform towards the lift, when suddenly my powerchair cut out completely: it turned off and wouldn’t turn on again.

I was obviously in deep shit. Luckily there was a member of TfL staff nearby so I got her attention and explained the problem. The staff took my chair out of drive and pushed me up to the station entrance hall. The staff were very, very kind, doing what they could to help. First they tried calling a taxi to take me home, but rather ridiculously my powerchair wouldn’t fit.

What followed was a very long, stressful evening spent in the Woolwich Elizabeth Line station. The staff did what they could to help me, giving me drinks of water and offering to get me things to eat. As hungry as I was by then however, I didn’t want to risk getting myself too messy, and as there wasn’t a table nearby to put any food on I thought I better not try to eat anything. I tried contacting people like Dom on my iPad without luck. Eventually they dialled 111 for an ambulance to take me back to Eltham.

By the time it came I had spent about two hours at the station, unable to go anywhere. To be honest watching the evening commuters go in and out was fairly interesting, and I think it’s fair to say that London’s newest tube line is being well used. Even so, it was a highly stressful, unpleasant couple of hours waiting for the ambulance.

Thank fuck it eventually arrived. By then it was half past eight and I had spent about three hours at the station. I felt tired and irritable. Luckily the trip home was swift, but when I got back here the zarking chair refused to charge. Who knows what is up with it, but I have emailed my usual wheelchair maintenance guy.

In short yesterday was a horrible day; the kind of day I would rather just forget. At the same time I was incredibly lucky: if my chair had conked out anywhere else things would have been a thousand times worse. At the station there were people around who could help. If I had been, say, in a park or going along the path by the river, I would have been in serious, serious trouble. In all, then, I had a bloody lucky escape, and so it is worth recording. Even so, some days rule and some days suck: yesterday was emphatically the latter.

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Bitches In Brookmill Park

London’s parks can be very beautiful, and I love trundling through them in my powerchair. The problem is, I’m constantly having to watch out for dog shit on the paths; I always have to swerve to avoid running over poo. I know there are rules against it, and that dog owners are supposed to clean up after their pets, but some seem to think the rules don’t apply to them. Yesterday, for instance, I was going through a lovely little park the other side of Lewisham, called Brookmill Park. It’s a linear kind of park with a small river running along one side of it, quite wooded with well-maintained paths. When I first entered the park, I saw there were signs saying dogs were prohibited there.

That, of course, struck me as a good thing because I wouldn’t need to dodge dog shit. I was trundling contentedly along, though, when I noticed two old ladies with three dogs walking along the path, blatantly ignoring the rules. That got my ire up, so I decided to confront them: rather than typing anything into my I pad, I just shouted to attract their attention and pointed to a nearby sign.

That was when things started to go downhill. With alarming arrogance, the old bitches said they didn’t care and told me to shut up. It was as though they felt that they owned the park. Naturally that enraged me in the way I’ve described here before, and I shouted back insisting that the women and their dogs leave the park immediately. They shouted back, refusing to do so.

Things then got very, very heated; in fact it almost became violent. I feel I was in the right, but the way the women responded to me with such petulant arrogance was totally unacceptable. At one point, one of them tried to pull my Ipad off my lap. Needless to say, I got very, very wound up, and I still feel angry about it this morning. In the end the women walked away, going over a nearby footbridge with steps so I couldn’t follow them. But I refuse to let this drop – I refuse to be treated like that by two arrogant old bitches who think their rights trump anyone else’s. Unfortunately I have nothing to identify the two women, so probably won’t be able to take this further; but encountering such sneering selfishness has really upset me.

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London Public Transport Still Has a Way To Go

At the risk of repeating myself, I’m a big fan of London public transport: I love the ability to get on and off busses and tube trains with very little fuss, and go wherever I want across this vast metropolis. That does not, however, mean that I don’t think there isn’t huge room for improvement. This morning, for example, it took me well over two hours to get from my flat in Eltham to the old family house in Harlesden. It’s a distance of probably around fifteen miles, as the crow flies. It’s also a simple enough journey: a bus to North Greenwich, then the jubilee line to Wembley, then another bus here. Yet for some reason it takes more time for me to get access the city then it used to take dad to drive most of the way up to Cheshire.

To be fair, mum said I made good time this morning, and my journey could have taken far longer. That’s true enough, but even so I found it painstakingly slow. The problem is, I can only go via accessible tube stations, meaning I have to go all the way up to Wembley and then get a bus back to an area the tube train actually passed through. Being able to get off at Kilburn would probably cut about half an hour off my total journey time, but Kilburn isn’t an accessible station. Thus for all its wonderful new lines, and for all the improvements it has made over the last twenty to thirty years, London public transport still has quite a way to go.

Now, though, I’m off to enjoy mum’s cooking and play board games.

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TfL Lifts Should Only Be For Wheelchair Users

After what happened today I’m seriously considering starting a campaign to make all the lifts on the London transport network strictly for wheelchair users only, or at least confined to people who strictly need them. It had started out as a pretty normal day: after seeing it flagged up on the breakfast news, I thought I would go up to Central London to check out the Qatari state visit. I took the Jubilee Line up there, getting off at green park. Predictably, however, I got there too late for all the festivities, so there was nothing left for me to do but head back.

Just to make things a little more interesting, I thought I would trundle to Westminster, take the Jubilee Line to Bond Street and from there get the Elizabeth Line to Woolwich. For some reason it impresses me that you can now transfer between the Jubilee and Elizabeth Lines at Bond Street without leaving the station.

It was there, though, that the problems started. As any Londoner probably knows, Bond Street is quite a complex station, with its labyrinth of tunnels, escalators and lifts. To be honest I find it rather fascinating how the engineers managed to merge the old and new parts of the station. This afternoon, however, when I attempted to use one of the older lifts, I found it was going very slowly indeed. Just as I was starting to think that I should have just gone straight home, it finally arrived, and I wheeled into it along with five or six perfectly able bodied people. Everything seemed to be fine, until we got to the required floor, and the lifts doors wouldn’t open. No matter how many times the button was pushed, the doors refused to open.

People gradually began to panic. After a few minutes one guy pressed the emergency button and spoke to the operator. She assured us that a maintenance guy was on his way, but nonetheless I was there stuck in a lift, getting more and more furious with the lazy p’tahks who surrounded me. If such lifts were only used by those of us who need them, they would probably all work perfectly well.

Obviously things were eventually resolved, and after about quarter of an hour the lift began working again. Truth be told things were never in much doubt; but the fact remains that the lifts on the TfL network are getting older and older, and the more they are used by people who are perfectly able to use stairs or escalators, the more likely they are to break down. Obviously there will need to be some exceptions, such as mums pushing prams, but if you ask me all lifts should be strictly reserved for those of us with no alternative. As with my grievance concerning prams occupying the wheelchair space on busses, it just seems so arrogant and self-centred. It is now clearly becoming so problematic that I feel I have to do something about it.

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Discovering The London Overground

I found something pretty cool out today. Believe it or not, I had never used the London overground before: I had always assumed it was too complicated, inaccessible and generally not as as advanced as the tube. Mind you, I had been intending to try it out for a while, just to establish whether it could be of any use to me after all. Today, though, I was out on my trundle again: I was up near Farringdon and it was about time to head home, so I thought I’d just hop on to the Elizabeth Line to Woolwich.

The problem was, at the station I was told that the Elizabeth Line wasn’t running today. When I heard that I automatically started to panic slightly – how the smeg was I going to get home? However the man then told me that I could take the overground instead, a suggestion which I found pretty interesting.

That, then, is what I did: it was a smooth, uneventful ride back to Woolwich, if somewhat slower than the Elizabeth Line. Mind you, I enjoyed some great views across South London on the way. More importantly though, I now know that the London overground is accessible, usable, and I’ll certainly try to use it more from now on. All I would need to do is make sure there is someone waiting for me with a ramp at wherever I’m going. Given that there’s an overground station not far away from me in Kidbrooke, this is potentially a very useful discovery for me indeed.

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A Change Of Order

The staff at Costa coffee shop at North Greenwich eyed one particular customer with increasing curiosity. For the last few months he had been visiting their shop every Wednesday morning. That in itself was odd, as, due to the location of their cafe, they had few regular customers. But what made this man especially noteworthy was the fact that he clearly had a physical disability. Every Wednesday, at around ten, he would barge through the door of the shop in his large electric wheelchair, select the same cheese and ham toastie from the food shelf, before rolling forward to the counter and typing into the ipad he used to communicate that he would also like a large cappuccino. He would then place his Ipad and baseball cap on the nearest available table before going and ‘parking’ his wheelchair by the back wall of the shop.

This happened as regularly as clockwork: the Costa staff had grown used to it, and now knew that the fellow drank his coffee using a special plastic straw and that he kept his money in his bumbag. Where customers with such disabilities had once been rare, in twenty-first century London they were becoming more and more commonplace. Getting out of his wheelchair, he then always walked in his own unsteady, almost frightening way back to the table he had put his things on to wait for his coffee and sandwich.

Only, something had recently changed. When he first started coming into their shop, the man had seemed a pretty jovial sort of fellow, smiling, laughing, and even typing jokes into his Ipad. For the last two or three Wednesdays, though, he had appeared quieter, slower, and much more depressed. It was as if some enormous problem was suddenly bearing down on him, or that the entire world had grown much darker for him. Of course, the cafe staff knew that it wasn’t their business to pry, but they could tell something was wrong.

This morning, however, things seemed to have changed once again. At just after ten they heard the door of their shop swing open. The cafe staff all looked up to see their regular customer surge through the door, his smile returned to his face. It was as if his usual confidence had been restored. As he passed the shelf, he picked out the same toastie he ate every Wednesday; only this morning something odd happened. Rolling up to the counter, instead of starting to type his usual request for a cappuccino, his palsied fingers went in an entirely different pattern.

“Tea,” he typed. “Earl Grey. Hot.”

The Ill-Informed Ramblings of a Cripple

A half-assed attempt at political and social commentary

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