The Blind Truth: Recent Episodes
Anna Tylor
Anna Tylor presents a series of very funny stories that spotlight everyday experiences of visually impaired people to reveal the absurdities of what lurks just below the surface. The stories are beautifully illustrated by her friend Siobhain Santry (https://www.instagram.com/siobhainsantry/) who delivers even more joy to a good read. New episodes every Tuesday and Thursday. All views expressed are those of the author.
Postscript.
These blogs emerged from endless hours of storytelling with my friend Siobhain Santry, who's illustrated so many of the early blogs and the last one.
It's been a joint endeavour and I credit her with helping to create so much of the humour and the spirit around what I've wanted to say.
There's light and there's shade, in just about every situation we find ourselves in in life. Which has turnout out to be a helpful way of approaching things. Particularly living through the curveball that was breast cancer.
Even in the darkest of times, I've managed to see the funny side of how some events unfolded and get cross at what deserved to have a bit of fury thrown at it.
People are really extraordinary.
In my stories, I've touched on the very best and the very worst of us.
There are so many stories that I could've told. I've cried and I've laughed with the people I love, and sometimes at myself. There's nothing like laughter, but this doesn't neutralise the challenge of living with sight loss.
Life is not all 'ha ha hi hi', but even where it is deadly serious, there's usually some redeeming feature to be found.
If there was a mantra to get me through life, some of it would be unrepeatable but the parts I would share are:
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'Map out where every clean loo is, for your comfort.'
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'Get enough sleep.'
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'Make the most of love and friendship.'
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'Don't hang onto anger.'
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'Embrace elastic.'
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And 'Take every opportunity to exercise your imagination in seeing the world from a viewpoint that might not be your natural position, because it is incredibly rewarding.'
END
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Image is Siobhain Santry's sketch of Anna.
Over the last year I’ve been plagued by my nemesis Anne Taylor. She pops up everywhere but has now met her match in the shape of that well known medical professional “Unauthorised”, who has dropped me a note to tell me it’s all looking good. This is one sorry chapter I’m glad to see the back of, along with Anne Taylor, impenetrable letters and being spoken to as your actual bonified half-wit.
There may be those who take issue on that final point and consider the a bona fide half-wit approach to be entirely reasonable. Needless to say, it’s a sentiment I don’t share.
To celebrate the closing of this saga, in favour of all round joy in life, The Dynamo and I took a road trip. She has fantasised about riding across France on a motorbike. The obvious flaw in this plan being that there would be nowhere to put the inevitable piles of junk, we would not be able to help ourselves from purchasing, in every local flea market we passed. The obvious upside of this plan being there would be nowhere to put the junk we might otherwise have come home with because we are incapable of resisting other people’s left overs.
I have fantasised about being driven down the Italian coastline, stopping at every undiscovered local cantina, for delicious locally caught fresh fish while the sound of the waves repeated in the background, and as the sun went down, strolling through the exquisite local medieval streets.
The opportunity for a road trip materialised in the form of a jaunt up the motorway to Manchester and a night in a hotel with no effective means of working the air conditioner, that I didn’t know was there, or opening the welded shut window, kept closed less I should hurl myself out of it and onto the parked cars below.
After a fine chicken supper and a restless night of overheating I was up with the lark and off to the RHS flower show Tatton Park. I’m not suggesting that the risk of shopping was reduced compared to the possibilities of France or Italy, because Manchester has it’s own delights, imported from market gardeners all over the country. Being buoyed up by a cup of cold tea and bacon roll was enough to get me to the long border sensory garden in which I had more than a passing interest as the sponsors representative, but not enough of an interest to propel me to the plant tent to shop.
The early bird, or so I was promised, catches the worm. The journalists in question were all safely tucked up in bed while I languished in the drizzle just long enough to work up a spot of grump. Then lots of journalists appeared at once and all the discomforts of an early start evaporated and the garden won a gold medal for it’s first time entrants. Then a photographer got me walk round the garden as if I was presenting Gardeners World. It’s a cringeworthy snippet. Then the Dynamo appeared, bags of plants in hand.
If you think we were finished, we were far from finished and in a bold move, we drove to Macclesfield, to a fabric warehouse, where we spent the rest of the afternoon cooing over discounted curtain fabric. The Dynamo came home with six meters of fabric she probably won’t ever use. I bought a cushion I don’t need, then we set off for home, stopping for an impromptu food stop at a motorway services, and ate food we didn’t fancy.
It didn’t matter that we drove to Manchester and back and not the Italian riviera. What was important was all the talking and laughing and pleasure of friendship, because nothing trumps love and friendship.
END
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Image is Siobhain Santry's drawing of a cartoon Anna. She's dressed in her usual pink button down and blue jeans and is doing a stage bow in black heels, arms wide and raising a black top hat.
“How did you dye your hair that colour when it’s so short?”
“This is my natural colour,” I said.
“Nahhh. No one has hair that colour.”
“I do,” I said.
“What colour was it before you had chemo?” she wanted to know.
“This colour. This is my natural colour.”
“Well it looks dyed,” she said before heading off to take her pick of people to chat to who really did have dyed hair and had the good grace to be honest about it.
Our convenor called us to order and we started the introductions. I always feel it’s a mistake not to offer people some kind of guidance about what we might need to know about them, but this being a “moving on from the you know what” session, everyone felt able to reveal all kinds of information about themselves.
Lots of people opened their remarks by explaining who they were married to and what a really terrific husband they had been, except that they could not help but think they might be getting a bit bored of it all by now. I don’t want to sound unkind about this but I fear they could be right. The truth is that I feel much the same about it all. I’m more than a man down.
Conversation inevitably drifted into territory about the meaning of why. “Why me?” In my view it’s just rotten luck. But I was not prepared for explanations that ranged from kettle crisps to a glut of organic vegetables.
The why is not the tricky question but what to do about it is altogether a harder ask. We wouldn’t have to wait long for the myth busting NHS dietitian who unfortunately was running a week late. Fast forward a week and she was able to debunk our fears. A glass of wine was never safe and could not be recommended, but everyone accepts that ultra processed food can be a necessity. Needles to say, I put my hand up and did not ingratiate myself to anyone for holding a contrary view.
In the event we were offered a masterclass on how to make a smoothie, I would defiantly leave.
“And now,” announced our NHS dietitian, we were all off to the kitchen for a demo in how to make the ultimate smoothie with lots of yummy fruit, whose molecular structure would be irrevocably altered by the blender. I put my hand up and put it down again before absenting myself from this portion, or should I say, slurry, of the agenda.
The following week we were all introduced to the concept of exercise by a former army instructor who wanted to give something back. He wanted to give rather more back than I expected and without a blush, claimed an increased survival rate of 20% for ladies who could work up a sweat. I put my hand up and then though better of it before sitting down.
Week three also saw the arrival of the large print questionnaire, thoughtfully printed over the top of the regular questionnaire so utterly illegible. Never mind, our medical student volunteer would read me out the questions. I answered them all, and not in hushed tones because if there is one thing I am sure of, it’s that everyone wants to know how often other open their bowls, have intimate relations, feel depressed, binge eat, binge drink, take the wrong or right type of drugs, or experience feelings of frustration. I’m not being cynical.
I never went back. I realise that I am in the very lucky group that may not be through the treatment, but in my head, I’m moving on. I’m not looking over my shoulder but straight ahead.
END
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Image is Siobhain Santry's drawing of a grey ribbon with The Blind Truth written on it.
My friend Sceptic Tank thinks that a house should be minimal. I think that a house is not a home without stuff. The stuff I like is not the stuff she likes. My old creaking furniture is one thing but why would anyone who can’t see much want to fill up their house with china?
It’s a good question and weirdly, I know the answer. My house is full of the china of my long dead realities. This is the reason I am so attached to it. Every morning I pour milk into small jug that my Mother bought in a Cornish craft shop during a summer in which we rattled round south west England in a camper van singing endless renditions of “There’s a Hole in my Bucket.” I remember the moment, and every morning, when I take the jug out of the cupboard, a warm feeling washes over me.
If a single jug can do this, imagine what an tea service has to offer.
I know the answer to this too, having spent many wasted hours arranging Granny’s tea service on a shelf that is just the right height in just the right spot for all to admire but me. Not being able to see it, in it’s prime position has done nothing to dampen my desire to maintain it, keep it relatively dust free with the handles and patterns angled in just the right spot.
All this sentimentality does not stop me from moaning about the amount of maintenance that is involved, and how boring it is to spend hours carefully washing china. Every time I put it back on the shelf, I congratulate myself for a job well done and forty years of careful custodianship since the said china passed into my capable hands without a single incident.
Smugness is not an attractive characteristic at the best of times and there are many ways in which I have speculated about getting my comeuppance, ranging from a House fire to burglary. I had not considered what unfolded, although upon reflection it was always on the cards.
I was nonchalantly leaning against the kitchen sink, drinking a tomato juice, when Clive the cat appeared and threw himself down at my feet, or more accurately, on the hot pipe next to them. He yawned and stretched and I stroked him with my toe. All was well in the world.
Suddenly, Clive was sitting bolt upright. I knew what he had in mind. I was reasonably confident that not even he, who has so often picked his way with delicacy through my junk, is going to see this through, but he does. In an instant, he’s leaping towards my heirlooms, all four legs outstretched. Lack of spatial awareness does not deter me, and I head him off as if I am defending a high hoop shot for my country. It’s a good job I wasn’t, because I missed, and he landed, like a high-performance explosive, on Granny’s china.
The sound of exploding china and the ensuing shouting might have been enough to bring the neighbours round. What it actually yielded was a nice video of Clive settling in for a tummy rub in their kitchen. Even Bob, who tends to linger outside, ventured inside, possibly eyeing up the potential for new digs, and new servants, after my explosive behaviour in the face of what was entirely reasonable cat antics.
The china is now repurposed as plant pot drainage. I’m saving on washing up but cherishing my memories. Bob and Clive, aka Smashy and Nicey, have forgiven me and we are getting back in the groove.
It’s a good job I know my place in the pecking order.
END
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The Grand, is obsessed with cars. He lamented the lack of cars in this house. He’s not bothered about reverting to the use of my bus pass, but rather the lack of toy cars to be lined up on the kitchen floor for me to break my ankle on.
In this desert of motoring delights, he was extremely impressed to watch a large black car pull up outside his house to whisk me, and my suitcase, away to my next fun packed appointment. I know this because he immediately reported the event to his Father, my Son, on his return home from work, a journey made on a bus. He would have been beside himself if he had seen what had happened next.
After a fun filled afternoon, another large black car turned up to drive me to within a matter of feet of my sofa, a spot I was already dreaming of.
“Ma’m,” said my driver. “Ma’m, this is your time. You just relax now and enjoy the journey.” I lay back and shut my eyes.
“Do you need a phone charger Ma’m?”
“No thanks. I’m all sorted,” I said.
“Do you need water Ma’m”
“I’ve got some, but thankyou.” Then I settled back.
“That’s right Ma’m. This is your time now. You just go ahead and do your thing.”
“Thankyou. I think I’ll just go to sleep,” I said.
There was a very short pause.
“Ma’m, are you quite well?”
“Just tired. I think I’ll have a sleep,” I said without so much as a twitch.
“Well this is your time now Ma’m. You just relax.”
I didn’t reply.
“I can see you are tired, so you just go ahead Ma’m,” he said.
There was a very brief pause.
“Do you do this journey a lot Ma’m?”
“I usually take the train,” I mumbled.
“I can see you are tired. Is that why you are taking a car? Or are you unwell?”
“I’ve getting over cancer,” I snarled.
There was no pause at all.
“I’m sorry to hear that Ma’m. My dog has got a kidney infection. If anything happened to him, it would be a tragedy. People are people. They get sick. They die. I tell you what Ma’m. I love that hound. If anything happened to him I don’t know what we would do.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.” It’s not all about me after all I thought.
“Thank you Ma’m. I appreciate that. We’ve had him since he was a puppy. He’s not even old.”
I reflected that I don’t see myself as old. He might think I am old and so there is not a lot of tragedy in a spot of cancer, but from where I am sitting I should like to think my odds are better than his hounds.
“I tell you what Ma’m, every day, I measure how much he drinks and how much comes out the other end and every week I take him to the vet. He’s costing me a fortune but I love him. Do you have family Ma’m?”
“I do,” I said, thinking about the Grand, who refused to give me a kiss goodbye since I was leaving and not arriving. “I’m just going to have a sleep.”
“That’s right Ma’m. This is your time now. Take no notice of me.”
“I’m closing my eyes,” I said.
“You do what you need to do. It’s your time now Ma’m. You must look after yourself. I expect that your family would want you to do that. If anything happened to my dog, I don’t know how we’d go on. You just relax. I’ve got this.”
I stayed stoically silent. I’m only human after all.
END
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Image is Siobhain Santry's sketch of Anna.
Now that I am feeling less nauseous, I’m trying to get through the jobs that I’ve been putting off for months. These range from emptying the waste paper baskets and relieving them of old banana skins, to making sure I’m up to date with my pension contributions.
Neither of these activities have much to offer when it comes to any form of gratification, be it long term or instant, so I thought I’d start with a spot of furniture rearrangement. I moved my desk to the other side of the room where it would sit much better and would not overwhelm the viewer with its arrangement of dead computers that are so long in the tooth they are no longer supported. Then I moved it back again and called James, who is the IT support man.
I called James, not because I wanted him to rationalise the computers, but to restore the wi-fi to a working system. Since I moved the desk across the room and moved it back again, the wi-fi didn’t work. Then I had a hoover round and put all the bits that had dropped of the desk during the move, in a drawer for future repair.
There was no putting it off. I called the National Insurance support line to get my eighteen digit code number, that I would need in order to make the National Insurance contributions that I needed to pay to get the best value out of my state pension. I must say that I felt pretty pleased with myself for managing to pass the identity authentication test. The National Insurance helpline was experiencing a higher than average number of calls but someone would be with me as soon as possible.
Then I clamped the phone between ear and shoulder and set about going through the pile of papers that had accumulated during various surgical and medical procedures, that needed filing. Then I got bored and threw them away so that no one would have ever known that I’d just emptied that wastepaper basket. Then I sat down and waited. I put the phone on speaker and a booming voice, on repeat, told me that they would be with me shortly. I could not remember how to turn the volume down but went with it and stayed on hold. I stayed on hold for so long I began to wonder if this was really a well-oiled scam masquerading as a government department. An hour elapsed so I knew it definitely was a government department. I waited a bit longer and then the fully charged battery on my phone went dead and I got cut off.
Charged up and ready for action I called the NHS, published number, for the consultant I’ve found who knows about radiotherapy and skin without pigment. The number didn’t work. I called his private PA who gave me his NHS PA’s number that was the number for another private clinic. They gave me the right number.
The NHS voice activated call handling service sounded like Fenella Fielding and didn’t like my early attempts at saying the word “operator”. I changed tone. It liked my impersonation of Fenella, and put me through to an “operator”. He put me through to a messaging service. There was no one to answer the call because of staff shortages and messages were not always monitored. I reverted to my normal speaking voice and left a message anyway. His PA called back and gave me the number for his private PA, whose number I already had.
The BF FaceTimed for a chat. I bore my teeth at her and spouted venom. She made sensible suggestions, then I bit her head off and told her I was too busy to chat.
END
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Image is Siobhain Santry's drawing of a grey ribbon with The Blind Truth written on it.
I’ve been called some choice things in my time. I don’t suppose I will ever be privy to the full range.
The Son, who was a Red Dwarf fan, hit upon the idea that henceforth his Mother, should be known as R’mere. In his mind, this was the perfect response to his love of the lead character Rimmer, known for his intergalactic adventures, and the French for Mother. He was rolling down the side of a snow-covered French slope at the time. I like to think it was an idea born of affection but suspect it was more affectation. It stuck.
I once received a letter addressed to Mrs Attila. I may be fierce, but surely I’m not that fierce. It turned out to be a best effort at Mrs A Tylor by someone who couldn’t spell. That one stuck too, for the duration of my job.
With form in answering to so many different names, you’d think it would not bother me, not to be called by name, but it does.
Since my adventures in the Big C began, I have learned to respond to “lovey” and “my darling” and “dear” and “my lovely”. While I think it is not meant unkindly, it annoys me, because I always feel as if I’m being spoken down to. it’s also often accompanied by a blessing. “Oh bless you,” a nurse might say as she strokes my arm. I’ve not been shy about saying I’ve come for the cure not the blessings and it’s not always well received.
What really gets on my goat is not being called by my name. I don’t mean the “lovey” stuff, but the imposter that seems to accompany me wherever I go where the Big C is involved. She’s a woman called Ann Taylor and I’ve tried just about every tack to shake her off.
I’ve tried ignoring her, but this only results in more confusion. I’ve tried saying “That it could be me but that’s not my name.” I’ve flagged it could be worth a second glance at the paperwork in case they mean me, and usually this is enough to do the trick, but last week I disgraced myself.
After pointing out that my name is Anna Tylor, I was told to “sit in that chair” and informed “I’m going to give you a chat Ann.” The chat, was not a chat like any chat I have ever had. It was more of an interrogation, in which my cane, that was resting on my lap, and my name, not to mention the tag on my notes that says I’m proper bonified blinky, were roundly ignored. It doesn’t matter how close you wiggle the paperwork. I can’t read it. That’s when I disgraced myself.
If you are about to have your breast eradiated, you want a bit of back chat. I bet that even Ann might have questions. “Will you listen to me,” I finally exploded while I explained in a not very calm way, that I am a real person with feelings and needs and a name and was sick to the back teeth of being treated as an admin task or a slab of meat or being ignored.
All of this clearly had the desired effect because the very next day I was asked my name and when my turn came it was not my name that was called. “Darling” she said. “I’m speaking to you.”
“My name is not Ann or Taylor,” I said.
“Doctor’s waiting,” she said as she stroked my arm. “Come on Darling,” she said as if she wanted the dog to hop down from the sofa.
“And it’s not Darling” I barked.
END
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Vans are a contentious issue. My friend Malc had a van for nineteen years that he loved, until it got squashed between a Chelsea tractor and a small lorry while he was in it. My friend P loves her van, and so do I. It’s got it’s own shower and heating and it’s not bad for a slumber party on the beach. That said, when we slumbered on the beach, someone set fire to the caravan next to us and I ended up standing about in my pants and a T-shirt that was never meant to be seen in public, while the fire brigade put out the fire and the police took statements. P offered everyone cups of tea, and we were rewarded with some probing questions about how long we had been homeless for.
The proliferation of vans that seem to have appeared of late, are not the type that you could holiday in, but they are the type of van that could be implicated in someone getting squashed. Unlike Malc, there would be no need to sit in it and wait for impact. It would be more of a question of trying to navigate your way round it and hope that you no one runs you over.
The home shopping explosion, of which I am a guilty participant, has spawned a breeding programme of silver vans that say things like “thrifty” and “nifty”. They are neither of these things. I shan’t labour the obvious costs of fuel prices, but I wonder what is nifty about a van parked on the pavement at a busy intersection. It certainly isn’t the driver.
My legs hurt from my recent brush with prescription drugs. I was concentrating on just putting one foot in front of the other when I came to the spot where I generally cross the road, a minute from home. “Nifty” was parked across the corner, with the door open, leaning against his van having a chat on his phone. My only options were to walk out into the middle of the road in order to check for traffic, or climb over the top of his van. I asked him to move his van. He shrugged his shoulders and explained, “What can I do? I have so many deliveries to make.”
“You can back your van round the corner and park in a parking bay.”
Then he got back into his van and left the door open and carried on with his phone call that entailed a lot of shouting.
“Can you at least close the door so I can get past?”
No, he could not, but what he could do was to wedge his foot against the door so that the pavement was blocked. Did I mention I had cane in hand?
“Go round,” he ordered.
“Close your door and let me get through.”
We were in a stand off and this was more likely to turn rotten pretty quickly than the vegetables languishing in my fridge. I wasn’t looking for a fight. I just wanted to go home.
I’d like to say that I took photos and reported him to some authority somewhere, who used the information in a dawn raid, to finally apprehend one of Interpol’s most wanted. In a twist of injustice, I found myself walking round the back of the van and out into the moving traffic. All I could think of was the pain in my legs and putting one foot in front of the other in the slow dash for home. Then he shouted at me and I shouted back. He might have had the manners of a van driver, but I have the language of a lorry driver and offered up that well known British directive.
END
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Image is Siobhain Santry's sketch of Anna.
Food is the new obsession in my life. I’m always cooking it. I don’t always eat it. Sometimes I give it away. Sometimes, I am ashamed to say, it goes to waste. Waste is a sin in my world of zero food waste tolerance. I pride myself that nothing goes to waste.
It is with some pleasure then, that I am able to bring together twin interests of hot and spicy food and the desire to cook everything in my fridge, before it goes so far past it’s sell by date that it has managed to walk itself to the compost.
There is nothing you can’t do with a blender, an onion, some garlic and ginger and any one of a number of spice combinations to turn the laziest of vegetables into the most delicious of meals. There is a recipe for everything online, if only you look hard enough, and in an effort to express my huge thanks and great regard for members of the A Team, who are my counsellors, my personal shoppers, my nurses and the very best of friends, I have been keen to share my rotten vegetables with them in various hot and spicey sauces.
The Old Bag didn’t flinch but she did turn a blush shade of pink. “Phaal?” she asked. Here I want to be clear. She wasn’t checking to see if I thought my own curry creation was foul, but whether it was hotter than a vindaloo.
“I couldn’t tell you,” I said. It was the truth. It made me sweat but didn’t taste of much other
than a burning sensation. At this point, even a fire in the mouth was a welcome relief after chewing on cardboard for the last few months.
The Old Bag told me she’s once played a game of bluff with a friend who ordered a vindaloo. She’s decided that if he could do that, she could manage a phaal. She couldn’t. She and I were playing chicken all over again.
If the truth be told, what we were really playing was “Aubergine”. I know the aubergine has never had much of a profile when it comes to games of risk, but there is a first for everything. It’s like a game of Chicken because both diners eat their way through the aubergine in its accompanying fire, without swerving from the task, until one gives up and the other emerges triumphant, or they both simultaneously capitulate and avert spontaneous combustion, or in the worst of all outcomes, polish off the lot and suffer the outrageous consequences in which both emerge as losers.
The stupefying impact of the aubergine produced no winners. The Old Bag may have had her vision blurred by the heat. If she did, she never said. I would not admit to any consequences myself, but did eat yoghurt as any accompaniment, in an effort to quell the flames.
It’s a cruel irony that chemo and the accompanying regime of steroids makes you fat, and yet I have reaped none of the pleasures as I have grown to resemble the Sister’s garage minus the plants growing out of the roof. Never mind, “That’ll put hairs on your chest,” one of the elderly relatives offered up, by way of bigging up the aubergine. Setting aside the novelty factor, a hairy chest would be the final insult given the state of my otherwise baldness.
I keep reminding myself that however others see me, in my mind, I am trying to be the heroine of my own story here, and I have to do whatever that takes. If I can beat the Old Bag in a game of Aubergine, that’s good enough for me.
END
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Image is Siobhain Santry's drawing of a grey ribbon with The Blind Truth written on it.
A tasty meal is like the hunt for Red October. I just have to keep going with the drive to hit that sweet, or in my case, that hot spot. Not everyone shares my ambition but I keep going, undeterred by the disappointment of having no taste buds and little saliva left.
“That is the hottest chilli you will ever have. You just need to shave a tiny bit off and that will do you,” said the log man as he handed over Jamaican Bonnet. I couldn’t help but wonder if his booming voice was born of too many chillies. He is the loudest person I know.
“Wonderful,” I said, gripping the bag.
“Good girl,” he said and headed off towards his wheelbarrow.
One good turn deserves another, so before I went to chemo, I knocked up a cheeky little soup, made out of leftovers, with just a tad of chilli, a pinch of salt, a sprinkle of cayenne pepper, a hint of ginger and a mini amount of garlic. I thought I was rather modest in my ambitions, but not only did I outstrip my own expectations, I stripped out the lining of my lucky recipient’s mouth, oesophagus and stomach.
I don’t know why some people pick at their food. I’m full of steroids, which is like being in training for Fight Club. I’m always hungry and always casting about for things to do or eat, or a sparring partner at three in the morning when everyone else is asleep. That is everyone but toddlers, who are hopeless at having meaningful conversation, when they are busy fighting their own battles with sprouting teeth.
While I wolfed down the said soup, my chum took mouse sized mouthfuls until she declared she could not eat any more. “Are you feeling alright?” I asked.
“Yes,” she said. “It’s not that.”
“Don’t you like it?”
“It’s a bit on the hot side.”
Now that I come to reflect on it, a tad of chilli, a pinch of salt, a sprinkle of cayenne pepper, a hint of ginger and a mini amount of garlic are subjective measures. I could just have easily said, a quarter of a Jamaican Bonnet, a fistful of salt, although I tried my best not to over salt as I don’t want to silt up my veins, a teaspoon of cayenne, a root of ginger and a bulb of garlic. Apparently, this is too much. What is wrong with people?
It’s a good job I don’t have a sweet tooth because processed sugar is discouraged. It feeds my middle-aged fat cells, stimulates my hormones and works in direct opposition to my avowed ambition to kill the “you know what”. That said, I wonder why it is that every time I go for chemo I’m offered a biscuit in a plastic wrapper. I’m using the term loosely here. That’s the biscuit not the plastic wrapper. While it might give a passing nod at wheat, there is nothing else in that biscuit that resembles food. About the only thing it has going for it is preservatives, which I might yet need to fall back on if all else fails.
I wonder why it is that when sugar becomes the enemy it’s so freely offered by those who preach no sugar. “It’s because that’s all we have to offer,” said the nurse.
I’d happily rustle up a vegetable curry with just a tad of chilli, a pinch of salt , a sprinkle of cayenne pepper, a hint of ginger and a mini amount of garlic for those of us who spend Thursdays plugged in to a drip. I bet none of them would pick at their food.
END
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You might imagine that the demise of taste buds would rule out a craving for food. On the contrary, not even nausea can do that, and Lord knows I feel nauseous quite a lot of the time these days. However, nausea is no match for steroids. They have the ability to create feelings of hunger that are unrivalled. I have been, quite literally, shaking with hunger.
Round one of chemo, of this new and not so welcome experience resulted in industrial quantities of macaroni cheese being consumed. I would like to say that I never inhaled but it would be an un-truth. I inhaled macaroni cheese until smoke came out of my ears. The scales were brutal in their assessment of my brief addiction and I learnt my lesson.
Round two led me to roast a chicken in preparation for the affects of steroids. Protein would surely dampen my enthusiasm for carbs as I lay, quivering with nausea and shaking with hunger, in my sick bed. It did not, and I found myself standing at the fridge eating hot lime pickle out of the jar.
When I first went to Chemo, I was checked in by a nurse who made me stand on the scales and noted down my weight, in much the same way as check-in staff at Heathrow weigh baggage. Instead of wrapping ID round the handle of my suitcase, she wrapped in round me. If I’d been fatter than expected she’d have called for extra chemo rather than baggage handling re-enforcements. Weigh-ins have now led me to conclude I am on the cusp of a cry for “more drugs”. As she led me to my allotted spot she told me that “lots of ladies love a curry while they’re on chemo”. I snorted with incredulity. Now I know what real hunger is, I’d snort the curry.
This obsession with new ways to tickle the taste buds has led me to hunt the net for hot sauces and I’m not bad at making them. Thank goodness for the glut of hot chillies that languish in my freezer, along with the overflow of coriander seeds. Everything else I got in the supermarket.
Curry does not do justice to the range of hot and spicey food I currently live on. I eat it for breakfast. This very morning, I consumed a spicey aubergine dish slathered in lime pickle. There is an argument for not bothering with the food preparation and just going for the pickle, but I’m keen on my five a day.
All of this has spawned a lot of fart jokes. My chum the Big Cheese does a good line in fart jokes, and while most of his jokes are wincingly wide of the mark, his oh so human observations of excess wind, hit the spot. I confess that I have laughed so hard there was a risk of a slight breeze sweeping across my sofa.
The BF suggested that we go the whole hog and order an Indian takeaway. I ordered hot and it was delicious. It was so delicious that I was eyeing up the leftover sauce and thinking how good that would be for breakfast, when the BF stuffed newspaper into the leftovers and threw it in the bin. I thought I showed great restraint in not coming downstairs, in the night, to get it out of the bin and eat it.
Gearing up for the last chemo in this particular set of four “mother of all chemo’s”, as they were so sweetly described to me, made me wonder what cravings await me. Scotch Bonnet? I’m not thinking of a tartan head covering, but I am going for growth.
END
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Image is Siobhain Santry's sketch of Anna.
“Oh Granny, What are you wearing?” said a horrified looking Grand as I showed off my beach attire. I said nothing when he elected to come to my Birthday lunch in a multicoloured tutu, rugby shirt and jeans. He might not approve of my sense of style but I admire his nerve in mixing his.
He’s a boy who knows his own mind and what he likes, well, he likes. We took a photo of ourselves before we sat down to eat. He had his arm around me in a loving embrace. In the picture, I looked adoringly at him. He had a bit of a smirk on his cherubic face. I’ve subsequently discovered that his little hand was not squeezing me in an act of unbridled affection, but he was busy pebble dashing my party clothes in giant cuscus and a really good set of oily smears that even the dry cleaner sucked in her breath at.
When the post party pictures circulated, I only had eyes for the Grand. He was on form and looking pretty pleased with himself. As I sat in bed drinking my fourth litre of water of the day and feeling post chemo sorry for myself, I tried opening my phone to have just one more look at the centre of my universe. My phone was having none of it.
Since my hair dropped out and my face got puffy, I am no longer a recognisable version of myself when it comes to the tech on which I have grown so dependent. Not only does it repeatedly tell me that my face is not recognised, it doesn’t think that popping in my passcode is enough anymore. After so many weeks of failing to see the person I am, it repeatedly demands that I check my texts and enter the one time only pin number I’m about to receive. It could be worse I suppose.
It got worse. Next it started asking me to enter the letters and numbers it sent me in response to my having entered the verification code. Since they come is a jumbled state and are impenetrable at the best of times, it didn’t like my responses, which were many and incorrect, so it referred me to help desk. A ticket was raised and there was nothing for it but to drink water and wait.
The Dry Cleaner said the stains have come out pretty well. Only a shadow of a handprint remains and the cuscus is history. She broke the good news the moment I presented myself at her counter. She has never known me with hair or a jawline or the ability to move faster than a sloth. She’s in for a surprise sometime next year. I only hope she doesn’t ask me for the secret dry cleaner password in a moment of doubt that I’m in fact there to launch a raid on dry cleaning fluid and paralyse her business for a ransom.
A man I know walked straight past me in the street a couple of weeks ago. I was relieved not to have to stop for a chat, but outraged that he didn’t see me. It’s bad enough to be ignored by people that I want to ignore, but no one wants to be invisible.
It may be that it a weird twist, those around me should get their eyes tested. They just don’t know it, or are having trouble reconciling how they used to see with what they see now. After a lifetime of living in a world which is largely invisible to me, maybe, just maybe I have the edge.
END
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Image is Siobhain Santry's drawing of a grey ribbon with The Blind Truth written on it.
I’ve been doing a bit of media lately. I’ve got the face for radio and I’m comfortable with it. What I can’t stand is listening to myself. I don’t mind the sound of my own voice when I hear it inside my head and I’m spouting about something I’ve got the wind in my sails about. Hearing it back as others hear it, is a different matter altogether. I might not be that easy on the ear, but it’s what I have to say that matters.
Lately I’ve been in the business of making other people famous and not for all the right reasons. It’s not wind that is in my sails, although wind is yet another unwelcome side effect of the you know what. What’s bothering me is that the NHS might be one of the easiest health systems in the world to access, but once you are in it, it can feel impenetrable.
Let us nip smartly over the plea for cash to support my local hospice that screams from the walls of the oncology waiting room. Let us circumnavigate the confusion between condescension and compassion. We will give a wide birth to invisible signage. All of these things are a bother but the hullaballoo I want to focus on is the absolute lunacy of not communicating with people in format that works.
It’s no good writing to a braille reader in standard font. That’s how people find themselves missing appointments, getting discharged and having to start the whole process all over again. Sending me a pdf that can only be read upside down just isn’t up to the task. That’s why the Accessible Information Standards have been in place since 2016. Them’s the rules. Yet, you would be hard pressed to know it. You can read all about those standards on the NHS’ own website . Sticking to the rules makes life easier for everyone, not just for people like me. They are widely flouted and that’s what I’ve been talking to the press about.
I wasn’t expecting that I’d have to supply photos of myself as part of the deal. My friend ‘P” said she thought she could take a few when we went out for a walk. She made me stand on top of a grassy knoll that I fell asleep on last summer. It was only when I woke up I noticed the wasps nest, so I was cautious. “Oh don’t be such a wuss”, she said.
The same photo got used as a head shot in my local paper. It was superimposed next to a picture of a disabled parking bay, just in case anyone should miss the point that this is a story about some poor old blinky. I notice that I’m a bit pinched looking. I was probably wondering about the merits of being described as a “chairman” or how I was going to park the car I do not have. You can see what I mean.
The one I enjoyed the most is the BBC Access All podcast. Emma and Nicky do a passable Jane and Fi. They were super encouraging and just a little bit naughty. I sound very earnest and a bit taken aback by the unreserved apology issued by my local NHS by way of right to reply. You can hear how uncharacteristically silent I was in response to the apology I didn’t see coming.
All of this will only matter if the principles of universal access to health services, at the point of need, are lived values. That means making sure that everyone can read the information we need in our hour of need.
END
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At the first sign of a swollen arm you should definitely head for help if you have had your lymph nodes removed. I did this just before chemo number one.
I phoned the breast nurse. On balance, she thought it best to avoid the hospital while I was on chemo. I said I’d like to come to see her immediately after chemo happened and that’s what I did. I dragged my dizzy, wobbly, walk like a drunk and feel like a drunk post chemo body round to her, to get my arm inspected.
“lymphedema” she said. Then she checked with a moisture gadget. If I didn’t know better I might have thought she had a second profession as a Quantity Surveyor and was about to knock me down on price because I’m old and damp.
“Not that bad. You caught it early,” she offered in reassurance. I was not reassured. I fear lymphedema. I fear it because I don’t want a waterlogged arm and now I’ve got one. We went through the exercises, and I asked for a physio referral. She told me it wouldn’t be possible because it had to be bad to get a physio appointment. I scratched my head, metaphorically speaking.
There was nothing for it but to face up to the new look me. “I’ll measure you for a sleeve” she said, “and a glove.” The last time I bought gloves was on a mini break to Venice when I came home with a pair of brown leather spotty gloves I didn’t need. That’s unless you count the fingerless woollies bought in a car boot sale. I have not one jot of interest in orange sticking plaster coloured sleeve and glove. All was not lost, there was a navy-blue option and so I went for one of each, in an effort to lean into my worst fears of the waterlogged arm and a fashion car crash all in one go. I came home with what the nurse had in her store and wore it.
Lead in time is about two week but three weeks later the chemist told me they forgot to put the order through. They gave me a temporary fix to get me through chemo two. The GP said she’d re-order using another chemist but two weeks later, when the much awaited sleeves arrived they were the wrong ones. The chemist says it’s the GP’s mistake. The GP says it was the chemist.
The temporary sleeves started rolling down to form a nice little bottle neck around my elbow and with chemo three approaching I took drastic action and decided to see a lymphedema specialist in double quick time. This necessitated a long car journey, a fat old fee, then a good talking to about the deficiencies of my current sleeve and glove arrangement. “No, no, no. This will not do at all,” Said Sylvia as she looked with horror at my crumpled surgical supports. “This is the wrong weave, the wrong size and the wrong compression.” She wrote a prescription and sent it to my GP who sent it to the online pharmacy. And here is where it starts to get tricky.
I accidentally deleted my order because the accessibility features were a bit on the challenging side. The GP hasn’t quite understood my mistake and just keeps confirming the order I deleted was sent and there is nothing more to be done. I’ve ordered through the hospital now, but heard nothing so no idea if it’s in hand. Chemo four is looming and I still don’t have a sleeve. I’m seriously considering publishing my prescription in the hope that anyone who no longer needs their surgical garb could donate it. I might have chemo brain.
END
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Image is Siobhain Santry's sketch of Anna.
The blonde bob has long since departed. Jackie, “hairdresser to the stars and your humble servant”, cut it short in an Audrey Hepburn homage. She is deluded.
My friend Ranni, bought me three meters of navy blue lining cotton which I wound into a turban and practiced wearing about the house. There is a You Tube video for everything and when it comes to head coverings, I’ve done my fair share. I’ve covered a lot of ground from ultra conservative religious practices to cultural heritage and a modern twist on just about everything in between. I might be more Enna Sharples, in the resulting headgear, than “Queen” but I feel alright with that.
I had a funeral to go to, so I practiced wearing my turban around the house. I jumped about a bit, shook my head a bit, read, cooked and even managed a walk in it. It stayed on and not a safety pin in sight. Then I sent a photo of myself in my turban, to those who know more about these things than me, and got the thumbs up. Thank goodness for girlfriends. Thank goodness for boyfriends. Big BUT here, because when it comes to matters like this, it’s your girlfriends that count.
My girlfriends have all risen to the challenge and have provided me with a trip to a scarf emporium, where I left my dark glasses on a shelf long enough to go to eat lunch in a real restaurant, and try on clothes somewhere down an escalator and round a corner, before noticing that I was no longer in possession of said dark glasses. When I retraced my steps, there they were, two hours later, just where I had left them. This says something about the honesty of shoppers or the desirability of my glasses. My friend did proffer an opinion, but I’m not convinced.
Now all of this has raised a question. Even if you are wearing the most rudimentary of scarves you have to account for the slide factor. What do you do with your dark glasses if you are wearing a head covering and your normal practice is to pop your dark glasses on your head? How can your headgear accommodate your glasses?
You have to opt for a head covering that offers up somewhere to tuck the arms of your glasses. I’ve gone for twist and tuck. I find it’s perfectly possible to accommodate both readers and tints, at the same time, should I want to. The downside of this new way of doing things is that I can’t feel I have my glasses on my head and I’m a bit prone to accidentally launching my specs, off my head, without clocking where they have landed. It’s what you might call the crunch moment. The crunch comes once you have started to look for them.
No one told me that losing my hair would feel like the discomfort of brushing your hair the wrong way. It hurts. Jackie returned with her scissors and cut what was left in an evenen close crop. They say you should “brave the shave” but I haven’t. My humble servant popped round again and did her best work. I have a sort of cropped mullet. She refuses to put a razor to my scalp.
The way I like to think of it, is that it provides a little grip to whatever I chose to wrap around my head and that keeps my specs safe. It’s a bit like the old poem; “I eat my peas with honey. I’ve done it all my life. It makes the peas taste funny, but it keeps them on the knife.
END
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I am not in Kansas anymore. Actually, it’s fair to say that I’ve never been to Kansas, nor have I ever had much of an urge to go there. It’s isn’t covered by my railcard and getting there would definitely involve wearing compression stockings, which don’t come in 15 denier.
When I say that I’m not in Kansas anymore, I mean that nothing is normal, in it’s place or playing out as I had expected life to play out during the course of this year. Life has become reduced and intense, although cancer is not the first thing I think of when I wake up, or the last thing I think of before I go to sleep. I’m always on the hunt for humour and what better way than to amuse myself than to turn the drama, which already runs like a second-rate soap opera, into a black comedy.
It’s not that I’m summoning the spirit of James Robinson-Justice. I’ve never felt the need for another encounter. “Here’s sixpence, now bugger off,” he said to the six year me. I went home to ask my Mother what a bugger was. “James,” she said. No, my capers in health are not as slapstick as Carry on Doctor, but my goodness, it’s a bit of a jape.
I’ve braved the rainbow seats in the waiting area, that nestle like teeth, on a plate that’s attached to the floor, or the wall, and are just the right height to bite you in that tender spot under the knee. They herald the way to oncology which has a sound scape all of it’s own, unlike the rest of the hospital that I’ve explored thus far. It has a sound all of it’s own because it’s a temporary metal building that sits on top of another temporary metal building, in order to boost capacity in the system that is creaking under the strain.
I went to oncology to have a chat all about chemotherapy. I asked, “What is chemotherapy and how does it work?”
“Chemotherapy is made up of two liquids. One is red and one is clear. It works by being injected into your veins.”
I can’t tell you my relief in getting a fuller picture. It’s always good to have complete understanding of what is about to happen, even if the main event turns out to be a bit more that a colour chart.
It was hot in oncology, not just under my collar, but everywhere, because it was the middle of a heatwave and nothing good can come of hanging out in a tin can during a heatwave. It wasn’t just me that was looking like poached salmon.
I sat down on the rainbow seats to draw breath and that’s when I noticed the large sign telling me that my local hospice needs my support because “every pound counts and every moment matters”. I don’t need a sign to remind me of this. Nor do I need a reminder that if the colour choices made on my behalf don’t turn out to be a match for the cancer, it will not end well. In the meantime, I resent being asked to part with my money in order to secure a good end.
Granny used to carry a pair of secreters in her handbag, just in case she spotted a flower she liked the look of, even it belonged to someone else. I considered a screwdriver but can’t get close enough to the fittings without drawing unwelcome attention to myself, to work out which fitting I’d need. I’m considering spray paint but wondering if the consequences of vandalism could be worse than death.
END
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I’m secretly curious about what it would be like to be bald.
Baldness is not necessarily the preserve of old men. I’ve been on line, investigating head coverings, for fear that my own imminent baldness should cause others to run for the hills. My sleuthing has revealed a world, of wigs and turbans and scarf tying lessons, that I’m now watching on repeat. I don’t yet care too much about losing my hair, but I imagine that there are just some settings when covering up is the right thing to do and I might care when it happens.
“You want a wig?” the woman on the other end of the phone said in a tone which was rather more of a statement that a question.
“ehhh,”
“What’s your postcode?”
“Who is this?” I asked, because no one has ever said that as a form of introduction when I answer the phone.
“I’m sending you a catalogue.”
“But who are you?”
“You got a referral for a wig.”
“But who are you?”
“Well who are you?” she said.
“This is Anna speaking. You called me, but I don’t know who you are.”
“It’s me Marjorie, the wig lady. I’m sending you the catalogue. What’s your address?”
I asked for the link and she explained that the company don’t have a website but send out catalogues. “I’m looking at their website now,” I said, after a bit of swift manoeuvring. She sent me a catalogue anyway.
Wigs are affordable and modelled by people in poses and styles that look as if we are going through a 1970’s revival. The wigs themselves look as if they are made of nylon and might spark if you move too quickly or pull a synthetic sweater over your head. After all this bother of surgery and chemo it would be a pity to accidentally set fire to myself. They are all in colours that I have never seen, not even in Bulgaria where I have seen some terrible home hair dye jobs. I put the catalogue in the pile of cancer gubbins and went back on line to look for something a bit more stylish.
There are no end of shopping opportunities if you have cancer. There is everything from moisturisers to cooling spritzers for the face. There is at least one person, I can think of, who would happily perform the same service for free and chuck a bucket of water over me. In the end I settled for a squidgy thing to wrap around seatbelts. You never know. Someone might be prepared to drive me to a layby for a sandwich now that we are back in the 1970s.
Marjorie called back to give me driving directions to the appointment I never made tomorrow at 1pm. “I’m sure I don’t have an appointment,” I said. She thought the stress of cancer had made me forget and carried on with directions.
“I’m blind,” I interrupted. It seemed the best way to put the brakes on things.
“Then turn left,” she persisted.
“I can’t drive,” I said firmly.
“But you’ve made this appointment. How are you going to get there?”
“Honestly,” I said. “I can’t remember making an appointment.”
“Are you Heather?” she said.
“No. I’m Anna.”
“I’ve got the wrong person,” she muttered, and put the phone down.
Giving up on wigs, I went to buy fabric to weave myself magnificent headgear but came home with a lampshade. I suppose I could always put that over my head.
The BF, knowing my love of all things garden, sent me a link to a well-known cancer charity, from whose on-line shop you can buy a gnome.
END
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Image is Siobhain Santry's sketch of Anna.
I’m still living season 1 of my live streaming dark comedy “my left breast”. It’s a cracking little mini-series that has now been running for three months and promises to keep on running for at least another eight. I really hope that there is never a season 2.
In the drama so far, I have given up a big old chunk of me that I thought I could never live without. It turns out that having a lumpectomy is a bit like having a bite out of the peach, or so I was told at the big reveal, that happened accidentally while I was getting out of the shower.
Having your lymph nodes out is a bit more of a challenge. Every time I pick up a knife to chop carrots, I am met by cries of “Noooo” as my nearest and dearest lunge at me for fear I should cut myself, get an infection and die, or worse, that my arm cannot take it and swells to epic proportions that will cause me to moan. I have given up my lifelong approach to checking the state of the blade, by running my thumb along it. The Son, even took my knife and fork out of my hands and cut up my food and removed the knife.
Infection is the risk that is drummed into me at every turn. I even got given a card that says I’m a chemo patient and that should I become ill, “do not wait for blood results before administering antibiotics.” I feel like a drug Lord. I’m supposed to carry this with me at all times. It’s also got an emergency help line number that I couldn’t read, so a helpful nurse said she’d send it as a pdf. She was as good as her word. There was just one tiny little problem. Neither of us could rotate the document to an upright position. All of this was fine if you are skilled at reading upside down.
The biggest laugh of this episode came with the arrival of the preparing for chemo video, in which three earnest nurses read the list of doom from an autocue. I particularly enjoyed the joke about remembering to use a condom. I can’t remember if it came before or after the warnings about hair loss, weight gain and a nasty case of the runs. Given the likelihood of the these side effects, I’m not rushing out for prophylactics. On the upside, the video did include a flashed up copy of the emergency hot line number so I froze the screen and popped the number in my phone. The only problem was, that the number that appears on screen has an extra digit. It was the wrong number so let’s hope no other bright spark had the same idea as me because they might die trying if they ever needed to call it.
The nice nurse tried another approach and managed to print it out on a piece of paper that I have sitting next to me now, less I should cut myself with my own finger nail or possibly the edge of my tongue or probably the keyboard.
As this particular episode of series 1 draws to its conclusion, I am not playing it for laughs any more. This is a dark comedy that has taken a turn for the worse. I only hope it’s not too late to put matters right and get the script back on track.
Grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to hide the bodies of those who make it difficult.
END
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The Halloween wig I have bought myself at a bargain price is destined for the Grand’s dressing up box. Too scratchy!
Yesterday I woke up to find that the short back and sides that I had a few weeks ago, were attached to my face and not to my head. This wasn’t a migration of rootstock during the night, but a jettisoning of my locks, to reveal a pinker scalp than I imagined. I text Jackie, “hairdresser to the stars and your humble servant.”
“Don’t worry. I’m going to give you a close cut, in fact it will be so close that you are going to look like Audrey Hepburn in her younger days.”
“More like Matt Lucus,” I burbled. An image of myself as a giant bonneted baby came into my mind. I had to shake myself out of it. In shaking myself out of it a bit more hair fell out.
Turning myself into a second rate tribute to Audrey Hepburn in her younger days, took a good hour and then I had to get the hoover out to clean up what was now lying on the floor. On the up side, I won’t need another haircut in six weeks, or even six months, so as things go, that wasn’t bad value for money. “You look amazing,” said Jackie as she waxed what was left of my barnet.
“I look like a man,” I said glibly.
“Are you bloody blind or what?” she said wagging her hairbrush under my nose. “You do not look like a man. You look like Audrey Hepburn in her younger days.”
“Come with me,” she said. Then she frogmarched me to the mantlepiece and told me to take a good look in the big mirror. Jackie, me and one of the A Team, lined up and had a serious go at convincing ourselves. Definitely, Audrey Hepburn in her younger days. Who were we kidding?
I’ve tried it every which way: I’ve taken a selfie. I’ve put on my readers and had a good gaze. The truth of the matter is that I have no real idea of what I look like. I was explaining this to the sister who opened the fridge door and while having a good rummage said, “well you’ve got the same shaped head as Favourite Uncle.”
Thank goodness for girlfriends with cars and twenty-twenty vision, although not necessarily their children. I was once in the car with a girlfriend when her phone rang. She answered the call on speaker. It was her son, who was calling to say he’d just seen her drive past him and wanted to know, “Who was that really really old woman in the car with you?”
“It’s me, Anna,” I bellowed back. The phone went down. I never miss the opportunity to embarrass him whenever I can. His Mother went on an emergency run to the fabric shop in Turnpike Lane yesterday to buy yards of the head gear. Guilt is a wonderful thing.
Whether Audrey Hepburn in her younger days or Matt Lucas, I’ve come to the conclusion its not that important, to know how others see me, or even how I physically see myself. It’s better to know how it feels to be me without hair. I’m alright with it. What’s more there are online instructions for everything and that includes variations on a turban through to how Grace Kelly wore her scarves.
I’m well on my way with the turban theme and optimistic my inner Grace Kelly, is somewhere. Audrey Hepburn may be a push but I bet if I look hard enough Grace is somewhere, but possibly not in the fridge.
END
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Setting aside the demise of the blown fuse, and the kettle, before 6am. I’ve been to have my surgically induced fluid bubbles drained. I’ve been waiting for this moment since the last time I went out of the house in a state of heightened emotion and came home minus a vat of “lovely and clear” lymphatic fluid.
This morning’s trip out also served as yet another training opportunity for someone who needs to get their numbers up. I am happy to oblige. Today’s student offered up an abundance of “bless you” and brief felicitations on the quality of my output.
The electrician text me to say that he was an hour away. There was time enough for a trot to that well known emporium where end of lines can be precured at bargain prices. Kettles were not amongst them. This didn’t stop me from joining the till queue with a small tin of Spanish sweet chili. When it was my turn, I put my cane down on the counter next to me and pushed the chili under the Perspex screen where it was carefully examined, it’s contents read, it’s barcode scanned, before being picked up for closer examination. Then something unexpected happened.
Having located what remains of the curly label with it’s barcode, that I never bothered to peel off and now looks like something I stepped in, the cashier tried scanning my cane. “It’s a mobility aid” I said limply.
“Yeah, I’m scanning it now,” she said.
“It’s mine.”
“Yeah, I’m doing it now.” She persisted with small jabs at the cane.
“It’s my mobility aid. I’m not paying for it. It’s already mine.”
“But what is it?” she asked as she slid it back across the counter.
“I can’t see very much. I use it to help me get about.” As a leap of imagination goes, I don’t think she found it easy to make the leap between my bundled-up cane and how this translated into anything practical. I would have to dig deep. I dug so deep I found myself in bargain basement beating a retreat.
I headed to the hardware shop in the drive to boil water. Since the day I left a well-ordered stand of kitchen products on the floor, I have not returned. My reappearance went unnoticed and I settled on a blue kettle that was on clearance. At the till I slid the kettle over the counter and under the Perspex screen. I put my cane down on the counter in front of me and reached into my bag for my debit card. The cashier reached across for my cane and zapped it.
“That’s mine,” I said. “I’m not buying it.”
“I’ll clear it,” he said and carried on zapping.
“No, it belongs to me. I already own it.”
“Oh,” he said and looked as if he might be gearing up to ask what it was but thought better of it.
“It’s a cane,” I said. “I can’t see. I use it to help get around. It’s mine. It’s my long white cane.” I know this doesn’t really cover it but I wasn’t in the mood for evangelism.
All that zapping and cane action sparked something in my imagination. I can claim the changes that cancer keeps delivering, just like I’ve claimed visual impairment, as part of the patchwork that makes me, well me.
In her misery at getting breast cancer, cookery writer Julia Childs offered her husband a divorce. “I didn’t marry you for your breasts. I married you for your legs,” he reputedly said. Somehow, we all have to find ways to be the heroin of our lives. Not the victims.
END
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Image is Siobhain Santry's sketch of Anna.
It seems that this really is a country for old men. Contrary to all expectations the favourite Uncle is now installed in a house round the corner. This will enable him to make a garden at my sisters and come round here with stale packets of biscuits and instant coffee while telling me tales about smoke alarms, fish sticks and moles.
He has been digging flints out of the Sisters’ garden in order to develop a brand new vegetable patch. In doing so he has created a superhighway for moles who have also decided to spend more time round at the Sisters enjoying the veg patch.
The challenge of the moles has now become the principle occupation of the favourite Uncle, who tells me this story on repeat. I don’t mind this and try to respond to each telling of it as if I am hearing it for the first time.
“It’s Uncle here,” he says when I pick up the phone. “I’ve got a very funny story to tell you about moles.”
I listened to the story and when he got to the end, he wondered if he had mentioned who it was that was calling me.
This morning he rang to say he was testing whether or not his phone worked by calling me. Then he told me he was popping in and had a funny story to tell me. “Good,” I said. “I could do with a good laugh because cancer is boring.”
On arrival, Favourite Uncle did a thing he never does and slapped me encouragingly on the shoulder that feels like someone took a blow torch to it, thanks to recent health adventures. I winced and explained that this was the shoulder that felt as if someone had taken a blow torch to it, so best to avoid touching it. Then he did the thing he does that’s designed to cover up the fact he didn’t hear what I just said. He laughed and for good measure he slapped me on the shoulder again, before jetting off to put the parking permit in his car.
We sat around discussing moles and drinking coffee before he said he had to go as his fish sticks were calling. I said, “Don’t touch that shoulder because it feels as if someone has taken a blow torch to it.”
“Jolly good,” he said and for luck, gave it a final wallop.
Then I received an email about the second Favourite Uncle who has been in bed since February, but periodically comes to and asks for a roast dinner. This morning he came to and ordered Sunday lunch with all the trimmings.
I called the Brother because it’s his Birthday today. He went out to lunch and on his way home, fell out of his car doing a wheelchair transfer. It took three hours to drag himself into the house. This was the moment where I was probably supposed to offer up a “Bless you,” to show a bit of compassion for his misfortune, but instead I picked a fight and told him he was an idiot for not having a car and wheelchair that were suited to his needs. I suppose you might say I slapped him in just the spot where it felt that he’d been assaulted with a blow torch.
The evening was spent listening to David Sedaris who is much funnier than moles or car transfer dramas or roast dinners. Somewhat wryly he observed that in a total death toll of nearly a million from Covid in the USA, he hadn’t chosen one of them, and none of them were related to him.
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Image is Siobhain Santry's drawing of a grey ribbon with The Blind Truth written on it.
There is nothing like sitting in bed in the early morning, with a pot of Earl Grey Supreme, chatting to girlfriends on the phone. I was happily doing just this when the doorbell rang. Short expletive at the prospects of being doorstepped by local politicos or evangelists.
What a faff it was to haul myself into an upright position, stick the now compressed heart shaped cushion, made by the local WI and supplied by the NHS, under my arm, and totter off downstairs to the door. Halfway down the stairs the doorbell rang again. “Yes yes, I’m on my way.”
On the doorstep was a member of the A Team, that much treasured WhatsApp group of girlfriends charged with seeing me through the Big C. “I thought you were coming for lunch,” I mumbled.
“I did say 10.30. I’ve got to go to London later.”
It was all bonus from my point of view. I went off to have a shower and the A Team headed for the kitchen where she made free with vases, in order to make the very best of the beautiful cut flowers from her garden.
We spent the morning happily chatting about the grandchildren. Hers can speak Italian and English and interchange between the two. Mine is a boy and likes to talk about poo.
The doorbell rang again. From the open door blasted the theme tune from the Archers. (That’s the old tune not the new one.) I knew exactly who that was and rolled over on the sofa in a bid for a bit of momentum in order to get to my feet.
There was the FF (former flatmate) and before we knew it, we were hugging and crying and rejoicing, that I am, more or less, in one piece, and she is in my kitchen, having not exactly lied her way through acres of messaging about being stuck in a train tunnel, but not exactly leading me to believe she was in a train racing towards me. In the many joys and trials of our friendship I remember when she was where I am now. That only deepens our ties.
The FF is impressed by the lunch and says so. She broadcasts her appreciation of her fellow A Teamers on the Whattsapp group, along with a critique of the inside of my fridge, which she alleges horrible things about. When my fellow Granny departs the FF sets about fridge renovation.
On the table is an enormous pile of fridge contents. She can’t imagine why so much of what I treasure has survived so long past its sell by date. “The sniff test. “ I’m bullish on this point, but accept that there may be some preserved lemons that are no longer fit for purpose. We compromise and feeling she has luck on her side, she chances her arm. I run out of puff watch the bin fill up.
Once done, she makes a short video of the inside of the fridge and broadcasts it to the A Team, along with a biting critique of what she describes as the European Vegetable Mountain that is sitting on top of the cooker. She asserts it will never fit back into the now sparkling fridge. I protest that it’s all in the angle she chose to film from. She ignores me and takes the rubbish out.
By teatime I can hardly keep my eyes open and make another, less energetic, bid to roll off the sofa for some kind of embrace and a bit of a blub. Whatever the humiliations of my personal habits being revealed to an unsuspecting A Team, love and friendship trumps the revelation that I am a fridge slut.
END
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The best things in life begin with the letter C. They include but, as manufacturers often say, are not limited to: Champagne. Pale imitations won’t do. Canapes which are about the most indulgent way that people, who enjoy a good networking event, sustain themselves while coiffing the afore mentioned drink. Countryfile because I’m a country girl at heart. Cats, and here I can be even more specific and ask everyone to give it up for Clive who coincidentally has a name that begins with the letter C. Chocolate, which doesn’t do it for me but I’m being generous here. Crisps, which definitely do do it for me. Cheese, that king of food. Children, who offer all the promise of what is to come and always lift the spirits. Chatter, and here I should defiantly mention friendship but that doesn’t alliterate in quite the way I had in mind so I’m giving it up for Chums.
It might be cheesy to say so, but there is nothing like love and friendship when the chips are down. I didn’t include chips in my favourite things because I went on a twelve-step programme, in order to give them up. Other vices have persisted.
When it comes to Chums, they are the tops. I’d like to change tack here a bit. I have previously mocked the rise of the Whattsapp Group. The endless offers of other people’s rubbish, free to anyone who wants it, holds no interest to me. There is one Whattsapp group that I offer up early praise for. They are the “A Team”. It’s a Whattsapp group that is all about me and it is stuffed to the gunnels with Chums, all of whom I adore and who I should never want to be without. They are the kindness of friends. Kindness is a word that coincidentally starts with a hard “C” sound just like Cat, and that’s how my friends make me feel right now, like a cat that is enjoying being stroked and indulged and loved far beyond what I could ever reasonably expect.
There are many things to be annoyed about in life. There are things to bring you down. Some of them begin with the letter C; Coughs and Colds are a blight. I’ve spent too long hanging out with two years olds so I know about coughs and colds and must have built up enough resistance to see me through old age. Covid, which I have had and lived to tell the tale. Happily cleaning and chlamydia remain a mystery. Then there is Cancer, defiantly a hard “C”. It’s the “C” word I hoped to avoid, but it has slammed into me and I need a good Cry. I’m learning all about Cancer and Chemotherapy. On the upside I won’t have to worry about rogue hairs on my chin.
The thing about this less than desirable second list is that they have afforded me so much more time to avail myself of all the wonders of the more desirable of the “C” lists. You have to make the best of these things and find as many small joys in life as possible, so now’s the moment to surrender, put my feet up, catch up on all those back editions of Countryfile while guzzling canapes. I think champagne will have to wait.
Thank Goodness for Catch Up TV, another good thing in life that begins with the letter “C”.
Thank goodness for the “A” team, the ever expanding list of girl friends with whom I have laughed and cried and sometimes cried with laughter. They have caught me. That’s another “C” word, and I don’t think I will ever let them go.
END
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Image is Siobhain Santry's sketch of Anna.
She didn’t get up but indicated the chair for me to sit in. I sat down. She introduced herself and I said how nice it was to meet her. Given the circumstances, I might have happily lived into old age and never felt I’d missed out by not meeting her.
“Now I’ve had this nice letter from your doctor. It’s says your suffering with your eyes.”
I raised my eyebrows. This was probably not the moment for sport but I couldn’t help myself. “No”, I said, sounding suitably bemused.”
“Well it says here that you’ve got a problem with your eyes. What I need to know is if you can see my face.”
In view of the fact we were both wearing face masks this seemed a bit of a wasted question. I didn’t say so. “Is that right? Are you suffering with your eyes?”
“I’m not suffering. There is no suffering involved.”
“But you do have a problem?”
“No, the problem is not mine,” I spat. “The problem is largely other people”.
As soon as the words were out of my mouth I felt a strange mix of satisfaction and regret.
“I’m projecting of course,” she said. “If I couldn’t see much I would be suffering. It would be a problem for me but I can see it’s not a problem for you. But you see, what I need to know is if you can see my face.”
“You think you do, “I persisted tipping into rudeness. “ We’ll only end up in an existential exchange about what the gold standard of being able to see a face is. Since neither of us has any idea of what the other one understands by seeing a face it’s a hopeless conversation so why don’t I just tell you the snell score and you can look it up later. Shall we move on?”
We moved on.
When the copy of the letter she had written to my GP arrived, she had taken the time and the trouble to send me a large print version. Considering I behaved like a terrier, never missing an opportunity to take a bite at the deficiencies of my treatment, I may have to revise my opinion.
When the follow up appointment letter came, that too came in large print. My only complaint is that only half of it made it’s way onto the page. It wasn’t the first half with no second half. In fact, I couldn’t tell you if there ever was a page two because there were no page numbers and no one had signed it. Curiously it was the left side of the letter only. The right side of the letter seemed to have trailed off across the edge of the page into invisibility. How curious to take the trouble to send a critical appointment letter in large print but not to bother to check that it delivered the critical information.
It’s something I might feel the need to raise with “Miss Nat” or possibly even “a member of her tea” when I go to meet yet another stranger on Friday.
Meantime, my email in box is now swilling in emails with uploaded leaflets from Breast cancer Care and a series of NHS leaflets that have been photocopied and turned into pdfs. The trouble is that every email is entitled “Your Scan” so no hint of a clue about what’s in it. As to the pdf’s themselves, they are upside down and the wrong way round and all need page by page rotation, which does not always go according to plan.
Let us hope that this is the only confusion when it comes to the Big C.
END
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Image is Siobhain Santry's drawing of a grey ribbon with The Blind Truth written on it.
The Grand was on his second babycino of the afternoon when he had a lightbulb moment:
“Granny, I don’t think you can see very much can you?”
“You’re right,” I said.
With just a hint of caution he suggested; “Have you thought of wearing glasses?”
“It wouldn’t help,” I explained.
“Not shades on your head but glasses on your face like Mummy.”
“I have tried it….” I began
“Because then you could give me your huge hoover.”
He’d just split the atom.
I’m glad the Grand knows what he wants to make him happy. If it’s playing hoovers with a long cane I’ll go with that. He makes me happy.
I’ve been thinking about what it takes to live a good life, to be happy.
A good nights sleep is the holy grail. I like to go to bed early because early nights bring early starts and that’s the best time of day.
There is nothing like laughter. The Old Bag and I laugh together all the time. Last week I answered the door to her with the words, “Is that a tractor I see before me?” We were hot on the heels of Neil Parish’s parliamentary disgrace. “I’m a John Deer,” she said. “All my gears are working and I just keep on going.” for the next hour we sat on my sofa and improvised tractor jokes. Then we listened to The Wurzels singing “I’ve Got a Brand New Combine Harvester,” while I served up supper.
I get excited at the sight of my beans sprouting and totting up just how much fennel I’ve grown. The smell of lilac gets me every time.
It’s a creative life. For me it’s a bit of basket weaving and the time I spend mucking about with clay. I love a good glaze.
I’ve got the knowledge. I know where every clean loo in London is located. If you find yourself passing one, never waste the opportunity.
Nature is wonderful. Learning bird song has taught me so much about my surroundings.
Where there are bluebells there is wild garlic.
If I have an egg I have a meal. If I have an onion I have soup. I have friends who have no sight and always scratch cook. Nothing beats home cooking.
I’m lucky to have the space to invite my friends round to do a conga as we sing “Come on Islene”.
Worrying doesn’t help. Knowing this doesn’t stop me worrying but it keeps the angst in check.
There is nothing like a cat to lift the spirits and keep the rats at bay.
Better to leave cleaning to those that know what they’re doing.
Love is the business. It comes in many forms. Embrace it.
I’m not a gifted singer but that doesn’t stop me. If I’m feeling off colour, or on form, I sing along to Nina Simone “I’m Feeling Good.” It does the trick.
Hiking is one of the great joys of life. If you can walk and talk at the same time, so much the better. Yesterday I walked and talked for four hours, except when I was slurping water.
Invest in comfortable shoes.
I Rejoice at the miracle of Marmite.
Brushing, flossing and regular dentistry brings reward.
I find the regular consumption of lose leaf Earl Grey tea has kept the engine turning.
Now that I’m an old crone, I’ve embraced elastic. I want a comfortable life.
Always have your dark glasses about your person. On your head is fine. However much I am tempted I am never disposed to gift them to the Grand. I never knew that playing hoovers with a long cane could be so much fun.
END
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Image is Siobhain Santry's sketch of Anna.
“A pop of colour does the trick”, or so I have been recently instructed. Even the most rudimentary of t-shirts can be dressed up with the addition of an ill-fitting jacket. It might work for Zoom but would it be good enough for real life? Would it work for a real evening out? Experience has taught me that the fish, I know I will order, often comes dressed in butter so it’s wise to give thought to how to dress for splatter.
Into my inbox popped a 15% off voucher, which I entered and bought a blouse I didn’t know I needed. In fact, I bought two blouses that I didn’t know I needed. Both
of them in a size smaller than I really am. Which of these blouses would go well with fish?
On balance, better to go with the one that would suffer less effect from butter. Having once sat opposite a blind diner who ate his buttered asparagus in much the same way that a small boy would suck long strands of pasta off the plate, slapping the strings against the side of his cheeks, I know the reach and devastation of a bit of the old melt. I know just how messy an eater I can be.
It’s an adventure, going out to eat in civilised company, or even not so civilised company. Here I should come clean and say that I’ve possibly given going out, to eat, more thought than I might have done before spending two years at home inhaling kettle crisps and lettuce.
Dressing up felt like a million dollars and I had all my bases covered. A bit of salmon slapped down on some well buttered giant cuscus may not appeal to everyone but the waiter had me at “pink or well done?” No one ever asks this about fish. “Pink” I said licking my lips.
The fish was delicious, the company good and the surroundings comfortable. I was at the point of sitting back in my chair, jacket off to show the best of my bargains, when it began to dawn on me, that the quirky red blob, that I thought had formed a charming variation to the regular repeat of an otherwise regulated floral pattern, was not what it seemed.
If anyone who sat down to lunch with me is reading this, do let me know if your silence was born of a sense of awkwardness or that you just didn’t notice that I was displaying my new dress size. I had left the house with the label still attached.
There is something undignified about walking around with the label still attached to your clothes. How easy it is to confuse one red blob sizing label with another. for anyone who did notice they may have had to do a second take in awe at just how slim I appear to have become.
While your eyes may not deceive you, I may be deceiving myself. I fear the blouse may have been wrongly labelled and to all practical affects, I too was mislabelled. Nothing more fishy about it than that.
I should say that I didn’t suck the fish off the plate, nor was anyone showered in butter, I have taken the blouse to the dry cleaners who remarked on the generosity of the cut.
It’s a good job I also have generous friends who do not judge me for these occasional lapses.
END
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Image is Siobhain Santry's drawing of a grey ribbon with The Blind Truth written on it.
Not that this has ever happened to me, but if I were to find myself in a long and boring zoom call, I might feel inclined to do a bit of online shopping at the same time.
The sort of thing that I might find myself bidding for would be books about working animals. I could work myself into a lava in the search for Lloyd, an illusive police horse, probably long since dispatched to the knackers. If I were to find such a treasure, at an all-inclusive price, I could find myself struggling to say what I really thought in response to a plea for my input. I would have no problem reverting to that tried and tested response, “nothing to add to what has already been said,” or “I think what you think.” Yet all the time I am unable to get Lloyd the Police Horse from my mind, expertly handled by his brave rider with his 1980s haircut.
Who knows why these things happen. I have been unable to get Lloyd out of my tiny mind. Then I had a piece of luck. Danny the Guide Dog could be mine for £1.49 including p&p. I could barely contain myself.
The highlight of teaching the son about how Guide Dogs come into this world and are prepared for their life as a working dog, was obviously the bit about how Danny learnt to poo in just the right spot.
From my vantage point as average height, my sensitivities are never challenged when my chum Radiator commands “busy busy” which is Guide Dog talk for poo on command. My sensitivities were somewhat taken by surprise to find myself examining a photo of Danny mid-way through his ablutions. Here, I must try hard not to apply my human fear that I should find myself photographed doing my ablutions, because Danny the Guide dog probably experienced no such sensitivities. The Son, on the other hand, was thrilled beyond words to be the proud owner of a real-life story featuring a real life dog poo.
I have been accumulating giant font books to read to the Grand. I confess that the print in my “dog eared” copy of Danny the Guide Dog, is rather beyond me these days, but oh how I long to introduce the Grand to the joys of pooing on command.
Once Danny is embedded in his consciousness, I wonder where this will leave the “huge hoover” that we use to make our stately progress round Sainsbury’s, or tap our way round the station with. Could the cane find itself dislodged by a dog?
I’m still hankering after Lloyd. Mist the Sheepdog seems to have Long since disappeared into the fog of memory. Ping Pong the Elephant in headed my way and should make it from Market Harborough by next Tuesday.
If a newer younger Danny ever comes up for sale, I will make a bid. Meantime, all day zoom calls have nearly always had my full attention. This pledge was only once subverted by a job lot of wooden railway track and a vest for the cat, which is what I hope will stop him licking himself raw after being in yet another fight.
Let us hope that I am never subject to any kind of digital check that may reveal my shopping habits and the moments at which they take place. I’m not sure how I will explain away the industrial quantities of rinse aid let alone the axe, bought in error twice. My shopping habits may be a bit on the unusual side but they have seldom disappointed. The exception being the William Morris pillowcases that turned out to printed with pictures of He Man.
END
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Everyone loves a bit of personal administration. Don’t they?
There is nothing like changing arrangements for paying your rates charges or changing your direct debits. You can do it on-line and if that fails, well it fails. You will be accumulating charges, with no apparent means of stopping them, from here until way beyond next Monday.
Searching the website for telephone details will not help because it’s a secret. The only numbers that are published are the ones that tell you that it will be quicker for “YOU” if you do this on-line. Because no one has ever sent you an account number to enter, you are immediately rejected and sent back to the customer services number that tells you to go to the website.
At this point you may find that you become highly agitated and having hammered in the phone number one last time, someone answers the phone. In your astonishment you might exclaim your relief and tell your tale of woe at which point the call handler explains that rudeness wont’ be tolerated and puts the phone down. I don’t know what that’s like. It’s never happened to me.
One of my more pro-active communicants, sends me text messages to remind me that I should call the number in the message to get a flu jab appointment. I do as I’m told but the number doesn’t work because it’s the wrong number. So I make the trek up the road to be told that no appointments have been released and wont’ be until Monday. I’m told that the number is correct. Guess how I spent my Monday?
The verified phone number was incorrect so I called the surgery where a message told me that it would be quicker for me if I went online. Online rejected my log in details and sent me a link to create a new password that never arrived. I put on my trainers and plodded up the road to make the appointment in person.
All became clear. The number was correct it was just that half of it was missing. There were no new appointments available until Monday when I should call the correct number (not forgetting to insert the missing half) and press option two. Lots of people had been pressing option one in response to the instruction that it was option one for flu jabs.
“If you listen carefully it’s option two. It just sounds like option one” the receptionist said. I rested my head on her desk. While conceding nothing, she took my point and went on to explain that all flu jabs were an unreliable bus ride away. I raised and lowered my head onto her desk. My cane was folded up on her desk and having not accounted for it, it span off in a protest of its own.
The receptionist suggested I call at 8am on Monday and if I couldn’t get through I’d have to keep trying. “No” I said. “This is not reasonable”. She took my point and would get a colleague to jab me now. My gratitude was short lived because I had to wait until the end of afternoon childhood vaccinations. This was a clinic at which everyone who got a jab screamed.
The nurse who jabbed me said it was good that I had listened and got a flu jab. “Listened?” I barked. “What do you mean?”
“Done as you were told.”
“It’s more shambles than dictatorship,” I strained.
“Well I love the NHS,” she said.
I’m due a health MOT. The first available appointment is 6 weeks away and its phone only these days. I spent the evening on the council website for a bit of light relief.
END
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Image is Siobhain Santry's sketch of Anna.
The Baby Grand has arrived. I was so moved by the miracle of new life, that I went to an actual shop and purchased a small floppy rabbit suitable for babies under three months old. For clarity, this was not a real rabbit, but a stuffed toy rabbit.
Then my largesse got the better of me and I decided that what every baby brother needs is a Superhero older brother, so I invested in a Batman outfit, suitable for children aged 2-4 years. The Grand may not be the Baby Grands idea of a Superhero but he’s definitely mine.
“How does Batman’s mummy call him in for his food?” I asked the Grand.
“Get your food,” the Grand shouted as he took off his clothes and we all jumped in to tell him that there was no need to take his pants off.
“Dinner, dinner, dinner BATMAN!” I trotted out to the rhythm of the Batman theme music.
There was a small hiatus in proceedings as the Grand went in search of the Bat ears that were a bit on the snug side and had pinged off. He pulled his Bat ears down as hard as he could. They swivelled round his toddler head until his Bat ears were out of line and he was more of a Snark than a Superhero.
“Why/” he said, looking truly bemused.
“Well, when you eat a meal, sometimes it’s called Dinner.”
“No” he said and went off to speak to the DiL. Once enveloped by the safety of her lap he asked her “What does Batman’s Mummy say?”
“I don’t know, what does Batman’s Mummy say?” the Dil answered.
“I don’t know either,” said the Grand.
The joke may be a concept that has been a little prematurely launched on my part but I have other plans.
In the latest batch of photos the Son has uploaded, there is a very good photos of the Grand and I playing football. In true elite athletic style, the Grand is blowing a bubble and I am providing some touchline encouragement with my eyes shut.
Always alert to the possibility of new opportunities and keen to try new things in life, I have seen the main chance and I’m taking it.
Ole Gunnar Solskjaer may have enjoyed a long and loyal career with Manchester United, but I think it’s all over now. I know an excellent blind Goal Ball player who coaches his son’s sighted under twelves team. They’ve enjoyed a couple of good seasons and so I see no reason why ManU couldn’t be the lucky beneficiary of this approach. It’s worked for the Harpenden juniors.
The coach I’m thinking of is fully occupied but I photograph well on the touchline with my eyes open or shut. I know a lot about ducking and diving, dodging and weaving and I can handle difficult questions from the media. My ability to suck my breath in through my teeth in moments of high drama would televise well. Is Grandstand still airing or Saturday pm?
I don’t know anything about football but if we let ignorance get in the way of progress, nothing in life would happen. When it comes down to it, it’s all a leap of faith.
I’m wondering what the chances are of getting the Glazer family to commit themselves to a new uber league for Goal ball. Murrey Walker would do a great commentary, if he were still alive. I wonder if I’ve got my starter wires crossed there. Anyway, Gary Linekar would provide great match analysis, and since it’s in such a good cause, I’m sure he’d bring the crisps
As Robin might say. “Holy margarine Batman.”
END
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Image is Siobhain Santry's drawing of a grey ribbon with The Blind Truth written on it.
It might have been the colour of nobility and power in the world of the ancients but purple been on the back foot in public life over recent years. It’s not fashionable to wear your ambition on your sleeve these days. Purple though, is making a comeback.
No longer are old men reduced to exercising a love of luxury in their secret choice of purple underpants. These days it’s everywhere. Not underpants, but Purple. It’s out and proud in a rebrand that symbolises spirituality, creativity and dignity.
It’s not just chocolate that comes swathed in purple. The promise of a good night’s sleep is also delivered in purple. You would think that this would be unmissable. Unmissable because purple should be easy to spot.
Spotting the promise of sleep is rather easier for some of us than others. If you are dependent on Google doing the spotting, you should prepare yourself for a long night trudging about because Google likes to cluster locations. It’s easy to find yourself in the right place but the wrong location. I know because it happened to me. I spent half an hour working out my route and checking I had got the right destination amongst the many on offer. I got it wrong.
It’s easy to get lulled into a false sense of security. There was the trademark purple façade but there was no booking. Trailing through emails that had come via a third party several weeks ago, I found the booking reference and got redirected to another branch, a two minute walk away. It wasn’t difficult to find but once inside, it was another matter altogether.
It was late. The computer was down, and everyone was a bit on the grumpy side. I got in the queue except it wasn’t the queue. After fifteen minutes of standing next to a hen party from Liverpool as they chatted away, it dawned on me that as far as they could see, I had randomly tuned into them. There I was watching an episode of reality tv in a hotel foyer. Who knows what kind of a kick they imagined I was getting out of it. It wasn’t the queue.
It was definitely past my bed time by the time I managed to check in. I had my cane on the counter. The receptionist handed me a key-card and pointed. “Over there” she mumbled. I asked for help. There was a bit of tutting and some burbling then someone came to show me to my room.
I slept well. Probably helped as much by a good supper and lashings of plonk as it was by the purple promise of a good night’s sleep. In the morning I didn’t hang about. I went to check out, but reception was deserted. After a bit of bumbling about a voice said. “Can I help you?”
Then he pointed at an empty space at about waist height. “Key deposit,” he instructed.
In the middle of reception was an invisible clear plastic box. It was as if someone had left their rubbish floating in mid-air. “Everything alright?” he said in a tone that betrayed his reticence at asking. “A bit of help in knowing where things were and how to check out would have been helpful.” I twiddled my cane for effect.
“That’s because no one told us.”
“They did,” I snipped, twirling the cane like a majorette.
“No they didn’t” he insisted.
“How do you know that?”
“If we’d known we would have helped you. Next time you have to tell us.”
Down the road I ordered a breakfast bun. It arrived completely empty. There are time when some things are best left unsaid.
END
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I’m incandescent with rage. It might be more accurate to say that I’m florescent with rage because I can feel my colour rising.
It’s not that a lack of access to an on-street parking permits will result in the towing away of my hugely expensive car. I don’t have one to tow away. I’m much more concerned that my friends will stop popping in for cups of tea and even the odd glass of wine because they are afraid their old wrecks will be towed away on the back of a council truck and that it will cost them more to get their cars back than their cars are worth.
I’ve just been onto the new web-based “renewal of permit” site that my local council have provided now that they seem to have closed all their offices and shut down their phones. It’s a public health initiative that has sent my blood pressure rocketing.
I had to log in three times before the system would let me complete the form. Luckily for me the form was pretty much filled in and with screen magnification on I could see that this was all in order. But where was the button to confirm my purchase? It was lurking behind an icon that lives at the bottom of my screen, so it was invisible. I wondered if that might be the case so switched magnification off in the hunt for Red October, that remained invisible now that magnification was switched off.
Then I had a go at uploading proof of residency. My combined utilities came to nearly £80.00 last month. It’s a good job I’ve invested in wool as I feared I could be sitting here for a long time grappling with technology.
In the end I went back to the home page where I was asked to log in again. I logged in and then called the number on the bottom of the screen for help. A slightly tense voice read through a menu of seven possible areas the council thought I might want help with. Parking was not amongst them.
I’m not at all surprised about the warning that the council will not tolerate abuse or rudeness. I don’t find it hard to imagine a multitude of ways in which I might be rude or abusive once I’m put through to an operator. I stay on the line as instructed but the line goes dead. I try again. The line goes dead again.
I fired off an email explaining that the online application process doesn’t work with my magnification switched on. In case anyone suggests that switching it off might help, I explain that the process is invisible to me, and can someone call me back or send email confirmation that my application has worked.
I’ve had an email explaining that the council are experiencing high call and email volumes so I will need to exercise patience. In the meantime, if I want to sign up to the new garden waste scheme, I can do so by following the link to the new online sign up. They say it’s also the quickest way to report a missed bin collection. The big news is that in the event of wanting to report loss or damage to council property, there’s a hot line you can call.
In the interests of research, I called the number and would you believe it? There are real people at the council looking after council property. Good to know the service ethos is still alive, just, even if the hunt for Red October is lost.
I’m reading Kafka, just for laughs, and marvelling at how art mirrors real life.
END
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Image is Siobhain Santry's sketch of Anna.
“Let’s go to the supermarket and buy oats so we can make flapjacks,” I proposed. The Grand moved like grease lightening.
I think it a prerequisite that any trip to the shops should be made fully clothed and in shoes. Sensing that I was unlikely to yield on this point he sat down, stuck his foot out and handed me a shoe.
“Hold Granny’s hand” the DiL instructed. He nodded.
“Hold my hand and don’t let go,” I reinforced.
At the end of the road, I flicked open the cane ready for crossing. The Grand used his free hand to grip the cane. ”Hoover” he said. His day was getting better by the minute.
We stood on the side of the road while the Grand made groaning noises and mimed a bit of hoovering. “Let go please,” I said, then instantly regretted my instruction. He’d let go of me before he’d give up his hoover. “Keep holding my hand,” I said. Perhaps this would be the moment when his toddler bubble burst and he realised the inconsistencies of adults. He looked thoughtful but gripped harder.
We’d been in the supermarket about 4 seconds when the Grand picked up a packet of biscuits. “We’re not getting those,” I said, “because we’re getting oats to make flapjacks.”
He clasped the biscuits tightly to his chest. “I want biscuits,” he said. His resistance was not high. He was not well placed to keep a grip on the hoover and the biscuits. I put them back on the shelf and we began our slow progression with me doing the blinky bob in the search for oats, and him making growling and swooshing noises as we juddered back and forth up the isles, miming a really good work out with a hoover.
At the till the Grand reached his hand over the counter to pay and was asked if he’d like a sticker. “Yes” he said. Then he said “Tankoo” and handed me the oats and the stickers .
“Let go of my cane and I’ll show you how it works.” He let go. Still, I had a child in one hand, oats tucked under the other arm and a cane in my free hand.
At home the Grand was ready to give a demonstration on long cane technique. No one else was quite braced for the experience, but he was easily distracted.
What was left of the flapjack mix, after much testing, went in the oven. Looking at the finished article, the outcome seemed disproportionate to the effort but that’s love for you. Nothing is too much bother.
At the park the Grand said, “I love you Granny.” I felt myself tearing up and said, “I love you too.” Then the Grand said, “I love my snack.” We sat down on a bench and he said “I love that dog.” I looked through my tears into oblivion and agreed it was a very fine dog and asked him to tell me all about that dog, which he did. He put his toddler arm around me and I gave him a kiss and got all teary again. “I’m happy,” he said. “Me too,” I said.
Then the Grand slid down from the bench and standing in front of me, kicked me in the shins. “oweee,” I said. “What did you do that for?”
“Fun,” he hooted, and kicked me again.
“that’s not funny,” I protested.
“It is funny,” he said, laughing with delight. Then heading off across the park with me in hot pursuit he shouted “Run Granny. Run.”
The great thing about oats, is that they are a slow-release energy food which means, unlike the biscuit, you can run for longer.
END
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The Son and the DiL are having a night off. They are going to wear grown up clothes, for possibly the very last time in a couple of decades, before driving half way across the south of England to attend a wedding, on a Wednesday.
I am now in training to step in and offer soothing words when the inevitable happens and the Grand wakes up just as I am reaching the limit of my ability to stay awake. At this point he will inevitably begin to cry. The cry will turn into sobs as he chokes on the words, “I want Mama.” All my Granny skills will be called upon. The greatest of which is a tried and tested soothing technique in which The Grand commands, between sobs, “Pat bum bum.” In desperation, I do as commanded while I sit awkwardly, shoulder stretched and aching and back beginning to seize up. This could be a big physiotherapy bill.
Training means many things: it means going to pick the Grand up from nursery a couple of times, just to be sure I know what I’m doing. In view of the amount of parental hounding a two-year-old is capable of at the mere suggestion that I might turn up, no advance warning was given. The Grand was sufficiently impressed at my presence that he broke into a run, arms outstretched. His greeting was euphuisive. “where Bob and Clive?” he enquired.
“They’re at home, but they send their love, I said, picturing cats with speech bubbles.
“Oh no.” Then he let go and wandered off to go and collect his art work which he handed to me to carry. I tucked my cane under my arm, but it was too late. He’d spotted it.
“Oh wow,” he said, “The massive hoover.” He’s not one to have trouble thinking how to play hoovers with just about anything. This Granny is never without one.
Me, the Grand and the massive hoover set off under supervision. We made a scheduled regular stop at the end of the road to admire free flying budgies that were variously perched on a run of net curtain in someone’s front room. I didn’t see them myself but felt “vacuumed” into the budgie vortex and agreed that budgies are “beautiful” although wondered about the effects of free defecation on soft furnishings.
As we made it home, the rain came down and we all got wet. “Biscuit” the Grand said with quavering lip. Everyone knows that whatever the question, biscuits are the answer and should you drop your biscuit, the answer to the ensuing mess is obviously a massive hoover, which I happened to have folded up in my bag. With a swift manoeuvre of the zip, the entire contents were now on the floor and the massive hoover being swished into a state of readiness before being dropped in favour of the afore mentioned biscuit, which has to be eaten sitting down at the table.
“Cheers” I said, knocking my cup of tea against the biscuit.
“Cheers,” said the Grand before being pulled back from an intentional biscuit drop, then angling for a swift reposition on the back of the high chair. “No,” I said with my serious face.
He pushed. I was firm. He pushed some more. I was adamant.
“Have you finished your biscuit?” the Son asked. He was resolute. Toddlers roaming about with biscuits will end badly. He had finished and was ready to suck the moisture out of a face flannel. Then he got down from the table.
I need not worry that it will be me that walks half-digested biscuit across the floor. Thank goodness for the massive hoover.
END
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My friend the Doctor, the one who wore her contact lenses in the wrong eyes for longer than she could reasonably be excused for, is a keen wild swimmer. I watched a film about Hampstead Pond and ever since then I thought I’d like to get into it.
The Doctor offered to take me, not to Hampstead Pond but a lake near Andover in a location I am keeping secret. She even said she could lend me a wetsuit and a swimming hat, but not goggles, so I went online and ordered a pair. They shimmered like mirrors. I took a photo of myself in them and sent the Doctor a selfie entitled, “how to suck your own eyes out.” She replied that they looked fine to her but “between us you have to peel the film off that says, “remove film”.
My swimming suit is prone to filling up with air it’s so old, but no need to buy a new one if the Doctor was lending me a wet suit. On the other hand, better check in to make sure nothing is left to chance. “All good. We get changed in the car park. should be a chilled session” she text. “That better not be code for cold,” I pushed back. “Na, nineteen degrees at least,” she reassured. “By the by, ignore the pike. It’s very small.”
“You never said anything about a pike!”
“It’s a baby and swims away…mostly”.
“I’m worried. I don’t like pike.”
“I predict you won’t see it.”
I predicted she was right as I envisaged myself being stalked and sucked under by the baby pike.
In the car park everyone stood by their open car boots and put on enormous towelling ponchos. I was perplexed. Surely the idea was to undress and get wet before drying. “I just assumed you’d have one,” said the doctor. I somehow lost the stitched-up bath towels, my Granny made me, to change under on the beach. It was the seventies. We just stripped off.
When my companions revealed themselves, they were all wearing competition style swimsuits and hats. Their goggles weren’t mirrored, and they all had waterproof timers. I was in what might be described as a lose fitting ensemble with scope for further movement.
“Did you bring a wet suit?” I asked. She had not. The peril of my situation was now fully revealed.
“Nice and slowly into the water,” our coach said soothingly as the cold water made itself know. “that’s lovely,” he said. Then just as my companions were coming up for air after full emersion, and I was considering a light shoulder splash, he blew a whistle, and we were off.
“Take your time,” he proffered. Little chance of not having my time taken as I started to move backwards in the slipstream of fast starts my fellow swimmers left. “Can you see the buoy at the end there?….Just swim round that then on to the next one and so on.”
In the time it took me to swim a kilometre everyone else managed four. I was faster at getting dressed.
In the pub everyone congratulated me on a sterling effort. I felt small. Then someone piped up to tell the tale of their cross-channel swim. She had a heart attack a mile out from Dover. She was gutted and ended up in Ashford General. I’ve been there. I was gutted for her.
I must say that you can work up quite an appetite cold water swimming. I finished the Doctors chips for her. I’ve ordered a towelling changing robe, new swimming hat and a swimsuit. I like wild swimming, but not against the clock and not with handstands.
END
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She didn’t say so, but my kitchen is a bit of a disgrace. What the Goddaughter did say was “Yeah, the doors are all chipped. It looks nasty. I could paint those for you.”
“How difficult is it to paint kitchen doors?”
“Not difficult,” she said. Then she shrugged and stuck out her bottom lip.
I’m not slow on the uptake. “What do you mean by not difficult?” I asked.
“Not difficult,” she shrugged again.
“Let me put it another way, how complicated, how expensive and how long will it take?”
The answer was that it would involve a multiplicity of tasks, trips to the paint shop, Saturday morning early starts, two weeks of having no handles and not being able to touch the paintwork before the sealer was applied, and just as expensive as buying new doors. It wasn’t going to be a paint job then. This would be an uptake of 25% off new kitchen doors if I hurried while stocks lasted, rather than the agony of something that was not difficult but extremely inconvenient.
I sent the builder a text to ask if he might be up for the job of replacing the kitchen cupboard doors. He didn’t reply, which I took to mean he hadn’t received my request, so I called him. He didn’t answer the phone, which I took to mean he was busy just at that moment. When he didn’t respond to my various messages I wondered if he’d ever got round to listening to his voicemails so I text him again.
The next voice I heard was Malcolm, who said I clearly hadn’t listed to the silence. The builder was far too busy and had asked Malcolm if he could do the job. I was delighted. Malcolm and I love a healthy exchange of views. “Is this going to be a ten minute row or a five minute row?” he’ll often ask.
“What’s the point?” I glibly retort. “you’re not listening anyway.”
Then I got a call from the builder. He said that he was really really really busy. Then he yawned, very loudly, just to reinforce the point. “Listen,” he said. I tell you what it is Anna. My sister is gonna send you a text in a minute. Her husband’s cousin’s friend has had a baby and the baby is blind. Can you talk to my sister please. No pressure.”
“Of course,” I said. “Has the baby got any sight or none at all?”
“I don’t know. I wasn’t listening.” Then he yawned again.
“Boy or girl?” I ventured.
“I don’t know. I wasn’t listening.”
“When was the baby born?……” I love a new born.
“My sister knows. I wasn’t listening.” This might have been code for “You’re not listening.”
The text arrived and I picked up the phone and called the builder’s sister. The baby is nearly a year old and she’s a girl. Then I listened.
The baby is a baby is a baby. The parents are the parents are struggling to get their heads round the idea that perfection comes in all kinds of packages. Perfection need not have twenty-twenty vision. She’s statistically unlikely to lament the loss of “taxi driver” as an employment opportunity, but they don’t know that. If only someone would listen to what they are asking for.
In my outrage at this state of affairs, I committed myself to go to see them. When it came to giving location details I wasn’t really listening. That’s how I have committed myself to an eight hour round trip. I’m thinking of offering zoom.
The Goddaughter turned up and said the new doors looked good but then again they would have looked good painted.
END
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Image is Siobhain Santry's sketch of Anna.
The Goddaughter, and her various assistants, have been helping to keep my house in order. Reputation is everything and without it, she says, she would not have a cleaning round the envy of the most energetic of entrepreneurs. She keeps her clients.
Our shared desire to live in a clean house is one of those bonding experiences that she ensures and I take her word for. Taking her word for it is not the same as taking her literally. When she declares it’s ‘all done” I am not so stupid as to imagine perfection and don’t judge her or her numerous assistants against an impossible standards. There are limits and while I think it’s probably clean enough, I really can’t judge for myself. The odd cat biscuit still goes crunch under foot.
The Goddaughters various assistants have not always cut me the same slack. They are rather prone to taking things literally and judging me accordingly. The last one refused to come back because, “of your job”. The Goddaughter explained what she knew.
The assistant went on a date with someone who knew me and told her that if he were her, so to speak, he would not want clean in my house because he happened to know I worked for the secret service and was licenced to kill. Indeed, he knew for a fact I had killed. The closest I’ve got to anyone licenced to kill, is breakfast in the canteen at Bishopsgate Police Station. More a “lining up to eat as much as you can” experience than “Line of Duty”.
I might suggest that he was confusing me with that well-known fast car driving, sharp shooting, sniper, Brother Silas. Like me, poor old Brother Silas was a bit misrepresented. Neither of us could hit a barn door at anything further than six feet, let alone drive a fast car at speed through Paris. Just because we are on the light side of white doesn’t mean we carry such a huge grudge against people with pigment that we want to polish them off.
If my generosity were really being stretched I should say the Goddaughters assistant’s date got confused. Could he have muddled up notions of Public Service with the Secret Service. Or possibly he got his wires crossed when he heard about the exploits of the “Likely Cats” Bob and Clive, my small game hunters who turned out to be responsible for the stink behind the sofa. They were just doing what cats do and I never knew the bodies were there. Maybe the Goddaughter’s assistant could smell the rotting flesh and that tipped her over the edge.
The most likely explanation is that her date just got bored and thought he’d have a bit of fun at someone else’s expense. What yarn could he spin and still be believed? Quite a long one as it turned out.
The yarn he span was nearly as long as the threads that Bob and Clive have thoughtfully liberated from the front of my sofa. One more good yank from my own resident killers and the once pristine façade of my furniture will be revealed for what it is. Not that brilliantly constructed but well upholstered. Much like it’s owner.
Things may not always be what they seem. Bob and Clive are cute but will kill on a whim. Being whiter than white I wouldn’t dream of trying, I don’t judge those boys for their murderous ways and still clean up after them.
Reputation is everything and my killer cats are universally admired. I, on the other hand, appear to be dammed. Without my good reputation, even the cleaner has dumped me.
END
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I got the call on Tuesday. I’m not talking literally. It came in a text message and instructed me to follow the link to online booking. I did as I was told but it didn’t like my text enlargement. It would be a best guess then.
If I had more of an eye for detail, I might not have made such a hash of it.
A ten-minute car journey could be anything from twenty minutes or an hour on, that Emperor of transport, the bus. I split the difference and allowed forty minutes.
In the best tradition of royalty, the bus kept me waiting. It kept me waiting for longer than three buses were timetabled for. There was quit a little clutch of mask clad passengers poised to jostle for the door when it finally opened.
I did what I always do. I went to sit down in the first available seat. “Not here,” said a muffled voice. On to the next seat then. “You can’t sit here,’ said another muffled voice as she banged her knuckles vigorously on the window. Where was I to sit? Third time lucky.
I’ve lost track of “the rules”. The variations that appear and disappear by way of poster and hazard tape are mysterious. The almost universal dread that travellers have of a stranger plonking themselves down next to them, may turn out to be a thing of the past, post pandemic. Getting the nerve up to repel advances for anyone hoping for a seat is now practised by even the most reticent of folk.
Busy with the anti-fog spray that is a necessity for dark glasses while wearing a mask, I managed to miss my stop and had to walk back. It was an hour since I left home. I was late.
In the vaccination centre no one seemed worried about tardy timekeeping. “What’s your name today?”
“Same as yesterday,” I said, unable to control myself and instantly regretting it.
“Can’t seem to find you. Are you sure it’s today?”
“I’m sure,” I said with all the confidence of someone who has already banked the money.
“Could you just check your tezt message for me?’
Who would know how easy it is to confuse a five with a six?
“That was yesterday,” she said. “Don’t worry. All sorted.”
“Come along,” a looming voice said, making a play to hold hands. I froze. “I’ll look after you,” she said, giving my resisting hand a good tug. I didn’t say so, but while my failure to see what was in front of could not be helped, I wondered about holding hands with anyone dressed like that. What I did say was “you lead I’ll follow.”
Once jabbed, a nice volunteer came with me to the exit. “See you in 12 weeks,” she said. None of us could see what was plainly in front of us. At least I have an excuse. I’d been Gok Wan’d and was ten years younger. All the stresses of the afternoon ebbed away.
What was in front of me next was Sainsburys. I went in to commit myself to 19 crimes, (a nice little cabernet blend). It would be deliciously accompanied by thinly sliced, lightly salted roasted veg. I picked a bag dusted with something that said it tasted of cheese but wasn’t. Then I went wild. Thinly sliced roast potatoes were on a bogof. The second bag was doused in sea salt and cracked pepper -flavouring. I paid. I saw the number 3 and headed off on the number 5 until I realised my mistake and got out to walk home.
My crimes were delicious and the veg turned out to be crisps.
END
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I’ve had THE jab. Jabs and jibes were the theme of the day.
The mysteries of temporary signage that declare where to go, remained just that, a mystery. It was a good job the Physio Witch had provided fulsome direction of how to access a community hall that was at the far end of a Sainsbury’s car park, behind a doctor’s surgery with a walkway to it, so grand, it rivalled the spot where I keep the ever-expanding number of council issued wheelie bins. I won’t dwell on that here.
The sun was low in the sky and as I ambled about outside Sainsburys, I inadvertently ambled into Sainsburys through the “exit only” door. I know this because someone told me so. A quick circuit of the special offers and I left by the route by which I had entered, pacing about between temporary arrows that directed me back and forth across the car park. Eventually the penny dropped. It must be where no arrow dared to go.
I’m not surprised that arrows didn’t dare to head for the Covid vaccination Centre. The arrows might not have been up to the job, but one marshal had an interesting take on giving directions and could give any arrow a good run for its money.
“Madam,” a small florescent man said authoritatively. “I need you to go left.” So, I went left.
I’ve never come off best when faced with a wall. This was no different. “Not there,” he continued. “Obviously when I said go left, I was indicating you should bare left.”
“OK,” I said. “I’m baring left, now where?”
“Listen to me. Listen to me. I said bare left.”
“I’m baring left.”
“I’m trying to help you. I’m indicating which way to go. Look at me.”
“it’s no good indicating. I have no idea what you’re doing,” I snipped waving the cane about a bit.
“I’m trying to be helpful. You’re not listening to what I’m telling you.”
I lost it. “You’re not making any sense. Just describe where I need to go.”
He jabbed his finger in my face. “Listen. I’m trying to help you but you’re not listening.” Then he took hold of my arm. I didn’t budge.
Exasperation is usually born of a loss of control. “Tell me then, just tell me. I’m trying to be helpful but you’re not listening. What do you want me to do?” Yep, he was exasperated.
“I’ll just follow you.”
“Well why didn’t you just say that in the first place. You don’t listen.”
We both took a breath.
“Mask over your nose,” he instructed.
“It is over my nose.”
“No, it isn’t,” he said, adjusting my mask so that my already steamy world fogged over completely. Not much chance of following him now.
I can’t pretend there was much to laugh about in this nasty little exchange.
“Do you have any allergies?” said the nice young man in scrubs.
“Brazil nuts,” I said.
“And what happens if you eat a Brazil nut?”
“My throat swells up and I can’t breathe.”
“Do you carry an EpiPen?”
“No. I just don’t eat Brazil nuts.”
“So not that serious then.”
I suppose these matters are all relative. It depends on your view of asphyxiation.
My view of asphyxiation is that of the many ways that one can die unable to breath I wouldn’t pick any of them. It’s why I’ve always made a point of avoiding arrest. It’s the reason I don’t eat Brazil nuts. It’s the reason that I went for THE jab and let uninvited rudeness and touching go.
Building my metaphorical immunity has kept me healthy all these years and so will THE jab.
END
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There are not many winners in the time of Corona Virus, but dog breeders seem to be amongst them. This has generated a proliferation in the extendable dog lead. The extendable dog lead, which is my enemy, is not the only thing that has proliferated. Where there are extendable dog leads there are frequently dogs attached to the other end, busy relieving themselves of their breakfast. Where once there was breakfast, there is inevitably dog poo.
Since lockdown begun the explosion of dogs and their poo has made its presence felt in ways that I never knew were possible. While cleaning up after your dog is the gold standard, I understand that even the best of dog owners get caught short.
In parts of the Balkans people hang strands of colourful fabric and ribbon to designated trees to remember their dearly departed by. These colourful expressions may not be to everyone’s taste, but they are relatively benign compared to newer customs that appear to have taken root, or should I say, taken flight. In parts of my local walking spot, people hang dog poo in black bags from the trees and forget all about it. I wish I knew who they were, so I could return their abandoned dog poo to them.
I know I’m not alone in not seeing the poo from the trees but honestly, no one expects to be swiped in the face with Labrador poo. I’m making assumptions here, based on the statistical chances. I don’t want to sound mean. I love a Labrador as much as the next person, but there are more Labradors in the world than I remember there ever being before lockdown began.
It might not have been a Labrador but it was a big dog that eats a wet food diet or had an upset stomach. It could have been a golden retriever or even a Great Dane. It defiantly wasn’t a Yorkshire Terrier. Whatever it was it probably wasn’t a working dog.
However clever the guide dog, or any working dog for that matter, it would seem an unlikely use of canine time, to stop for long enough to bag and suspend their own excrement from a tree, unless I am missing something here. I have not taken the particular talents of the “sniffer” dog into account, it’s true, but I don’t suppose that even they are disposed to the bag and suspend method of poo disposal.
I suppose that given the rise in popularity of hanging dog poo from trees, it was inevitable that someone was going to have to face up to it sooner or later. I only wish it had not been me.
The poo bag is designed to be tightly tied and taken home. I put the lack of knots down to user failure. That’s the person not the dog. I’d go further and say that no rural idle, no common, wood or forest is enhanced by poo bags blowing gently in the breeze or flapping about in the shrubbery.
Coming face to bag with the unintended consequences of the rise in popularity of the dog and hitherto unthought of methods of poo disposal, I cannot help but wonder if the many changes to the way we live will stand the test of time. I’m hoping we all buy less clothes to dispose of in landfill, that the banana has finally found its true vocation in the loaf, that commuting times are a thing of the past, and that my personal commitment to daily walking remains undimmed. Poo suspended form trees is no way to live.
While dog breeders have been making a killing, the by-product of their success is killing me.
END
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Image is Siobhain Santry's drawing of Anna ducking away from a bag of dog poo hanging on a low tree branch.
The superlight walking poles have really come into their own since round three of lockdown. I’ve spent the last year perfecting my cane and pole techniques and I’ve been feeling pretty smug about where they have landed. I’m choosing my words carefully here.
I could never have imagined converting the cane or the pole in a way that you might hanker after a nice bit of cashmere or a beautiful silk, but I have caught myself on line shopping for both. It might be a sign of old age. I’ve noticed that I’ve also started talking to the Son about people he doesn’t know and never will. I do this as he’s turning puce with pleasure as he explains how to switch my autoreply on and off for the umpteenth time. This morning I sent him a photo of a graveyard because I thought the view was rather nice.
It could be that all this pole and cane action is not encroaching age but the shift from a cerebral way of getting around to one that is more sensory, more rooted in my body. This theory is supported by a range of what you might describe as ancillary shopping that has seen a serious upgrade in shoes. I’m absolutely certain this is an exciting development and not a view of old age.
Whether or not these advances could be described as old lady or not, I’ve been feeling content in where things have landed. Still watching my language.
I was just coming through a kissing gate when I noticed that there were people on the other side. Old habits die hard. I popped both poles into my right hand and assuming the flat ground on the left that was there last week was still there. It was not. I forgot about the rain. My brief affair with mud has reminded me that the old ways don’t work any more.
As me and my muddy badge of shame meandered home, a new phenomenon, which neither pole nor cane could account for, made itself known. It’s called the “back swipe”. This is different from the side swipe because there is not a barbed comment to be heard nor did anyone sidle up to me, knock me off my feet, then make a run for it.
The “back swipe” is part of the ever-changing landscape that the cane cannot alert me too, since the cane is designed to allow sensory feedback from the ground. How can any of us anticipate what is to be delivered in mid-air?
The “back swipe” is a speciality hazard delivered by reversing teenage boys in shorts, often in the dead of winter, holding on to bicycles, with large thermally insulated boxes strapped to their backs containing food. Still watching my language.
An encounter with the #Deliveroo “back swipe” lacks the comic appeal of a #Laurel and Hardy sketch if you are part of the performance. Having only just finished paying the bill for the broken jaw and ensuing dentistry, I am not keen to entertain the thought of more.
My dance with fish and chips was not balletic. It was more of a smack in the face. It’s bothered me but I think I may have the solution.
The #Darleks had a point, so to speak, integrating the sink plunger into their #Darlek selves. Luckily for me I know the woman who thought up this novel idea and elevated the sink plunger to stardom. I’m thinking of commissioning her to make me something that might serve as an early indication of the “back swipe”.
Teenage boys should watch out. I’m done with “excuse me”. I’m going straight in with “exterminate”.
END
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Image is Siobhain Santry's sketch of Anna.
There is a fine line between fame and infamy and oh how easy it is to cross that line and achieve infamy by mistake.
It was with a bit of trepidation that I approached the idea of speaking to the nation, or at least the part of it that listens to radio four and has not tuned out for an evening of Netflix. Who wouldn’t tune out given the choice, when the viewing is as tempting as some of the steamy period drama that have graced our screens over recent weeks.
“The Duck is delicious,” the BF reported in a well-appointed slip of the finger in a recent text, as she commented on the delights of Regé-Jean Pages’ performance in Bridgerton. “Yum”.
Undaunted by the competition I pressed on. I have the looks for radio and in this regard no one could fault my less than steamy contribution.
I knew I would be nervous. The last time I “bumped into” #Peter White, he offered me a lift home. This time I wasn’t expecting any favours and I didn’t get any. It wasn’t the fastest 19 minutes of my life.
It’s an odd thing that however well prepared you are for a grilling, few of us don’t have moments of panic as we burn in public. Level one panic sounds like this in my head; “Oh how I wish I had memorised what came after the decimal point and given a better reply.” Level two goes a bit like this: “Did I say what I meant to say?” Out of control panic is a car crash. “Will anyone in the office ever speak to me again?”
I was lurking somewhere between level one and level two when the line went dead. I waited. I waited some more, then a voice in my ear said, “this is the operator at Broadcasting House Mr Benn. We’re going live in…”
“I’m not Mr Benn, “ I blurted out as I thought about that cartoon character from the seventies. The possibility of popping into a nearby changing room and altering my appearance before disappearing off for an adventure was not without its appeal. If someone somewhere was addressing #Hilary Benn as me, I wonder what he was thinking about. Not much I imagine.
“You’re not Mr Benn,” the voice said. “Then I’ll drop the call.”
“Don’t do that,” I protested. “I’m half way through an interview with #Peter White in Salford.”
“You’re supposed to be Hilary Benn,” he said betraying his irritation.
Hungry for the resumption of my torture I begged for reconnection. “You’re supposed to be Hilary Benn.”
“can you reconnect me?” I asked. The line went dead.
It’s not that hard to stand your ground when no one is listening to you. I planned to hang about just long enough to be able to truthfully say that I’d tried. The best laid plans and all that.
“Just top and tail it,” I heard Peter say. “I think we’ve got what we need.”
“Peter,” I burbled, wondering if I was now betraying the first signs of some kind of media based Stockholm syndrome.
He only had one more question, so I needn’t have worried.
Amazingly enough, not everyone was drooling over the Duke of Hastings. Someone on my WhatsApp lockdown group heard the interview. A couple of colleagues sent texts to say it had gone alright. I confided my discomfort to the Sister who said “it was pretty bad,” and offered a bit of feedback as part of my learning. I’ve had enough feedback to last a lifetime.
The BF didn’t declare my performance delicious but then again, she never said it was a duck. I’ll settle for that.
END
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Image is Siobhain Santry's drawing of a duck dress up as a duke, top hat and monocle included.
Famous for our love of animals, the Brits have been busy filling up refuges for unwanted pets for decades. It’s an improvement on drowning or leaving the runt of the litter on the side of the road to be squashed or taken home by some unsuspecting driver who, having felt compelled to give their break pad a good work out, cannot help themselves. We’re full of contradictions.
I’m a fan of the dachshund, but when it comes to sharing my home with animals, I’ve often plumped not just for the short-legged hound but for the baby cries of the Siamese cat. I’ve had five of them.
Having lived without their cries for some years now, I’ve been hankering after a mog. I’ve been searching the ads for unwanted female adult felines and that’s how it came to pass that Bob and Clive moved in. they’re kittens.
They arrived with a free selection of fleas, ticks and worms which is no small achievement for the middle of winter. To add to the intrigue, they came with a packet of cat biscuits, of a type I would consider better suited to cavity wall insulation. They also arrived with a bottle of cat shampoo.
Cats are fastidiously clean. Unless you are compelled to home treat a bad dose of ringworm, there can be no reason to shampoo a cat. It’s a brave person who would attempt to give a cat a shampoo and set, so I popped the shampoo in the bin, along with the cavity wall insulation, before investing in food for growing boys.
After an initial terror that cats who prove resistant to potty training could not expect a long residency, all was going well. A week in the kitchen and Bob and Clive were ready to venture forth to the grand savannas of the hall, stairs and landing. Matters were progressing a pace.
What I had not considered was the invisibility of the mackerel faced tabby against the old Persian rugs that litter my house. An initial choice of floor covering that would not show the dirt left by teenagers, also failed to yield up slumbering cats, who had quickly established the precise location of the heating pipes and were not to be dislodged
As the weeks have passed and Bob and Clive and I have put on weight on our kitten diets, we are progressing to a level of intimacy that everyone who has been looked down on, by a cat, can only dream of. Bob and Clive are now on THE bed. It happened like this: I opened my door and put my cup of tea down on the table, closed the door and got back into bed. This was a maneuverer that took all of five seconds. As I sat back there was the squeak of an unoiled hinged, which is the sound of Clive’s Meow. The fireguard fell over. Then Clive fell out of the chimney and hopped up on my clean white linen and settled in for a well-earned rest.
I’ve blocked up the chimney and have taken to leaving the bedroom door open. I doubt my linen, or my paintwork will ever be the same again.
Those boys are growing in confidence every day and have taken to lying about on the stairs. This will surely end badly for one of us. Collars with bells were made short shrift of and this morning I had a chat with a cousin thinking it was Bob.
The feline soundtrack is what I’ve come to depend on. It’s a cat guzzling urgently as if life depended on it, followed by cries of, “Clive, if you don’t want to die, stop eating the cables.”
END
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Image is Siobhain Santry's drawing of Clive the tabby comically falling out of the chimney with a look of utter surprise on his feline face.
The subject of blood pressure is enough to give you hypotension. In the quest to stave of hypertension, the GP now commands that all her patients over 50 have regular blood pressure checks.
The annual summons arrived in a text message that demanded that I attend the surgery and use the blood pressure pod in the waiting area to ensure an accurate measurement. A phone call was in order, to check whether this was the kind of thing I might be able to see to do.
I was fifth in the phone queue and used my waiting time to walk up a hill so that by the time a person who introduced herself as a “Care Navigator” answered the phone, I was a bit on the puffing side of fit. Between gasps I set out my question. Was this the kind of thing that had been designed with accessibility in mind?
“Ahhhh…I…am…just…trying…to…remember,” She said. “Yes, it is. It’s in the waiting room.”
My expert communication skills had let me down. I tried again. “Yes, I’ve got that, but is it the sort of thing you could do for yourself if you can’t see?”
“Well, you sit on a chair and its right in front of you.”
“Has it got a screen?”
“Ahhh…yes. It’s got a screen.”
“And how big is the screen?” I was struggling for breath now.
“Well…I…should…say…from…memory, it’s about the size of my telly.”
“How big is your telly?”
The sound of a horse exhaling let rip in my ear. “From memory, about 24 inches.”
“24 inches?” I checked.
“Maybe 34,” she said. “I can’t remember.”
As my Care Navigator plunged the depths of her memory I began to speculate about her viewing habits. Would she need a large screen to make the most of Strictly? Could a small screen satisfy?
“So, you need to be able to read the monitor?”
“I think so,” she stumbled.
“And how big is the font?”
“It’s big. Definitely big.”
“More than 18 point?” I thought I had better check before I trudged up the next hill.
“From memory…I don’t know.”
I made enquiry as to whether help would be at hand in the event I couldn’t find the pod or missed the chair or mistook the cuff for a coffee cup holder.
“Just ask a Care Navigator for help,” she said.
I couldn’t resist. “Oh, like you. Wonderful. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome,” she said and suggested I went straight away. I said I would but not because she was having a CRAFT moment, but because all those hills had taken the wind out of me and it seemed easier than keeping the conversation going.
It was only after I had ended the call that it dawned on me my Care Navigator may have been slightly misled by the tone of my request. Questions of accessibility around this do-it-yourself test may not have been uppermost in her mind as I desperately tried to keep up the pace on a particularly nasty gradient.
Three hills and two flights of stairs, taken at pace, later, I found myself in the throng of a late Friday afternoon rush. “Next,’ bellowed a voice from the middle distance.
“Do you mean me?”
“I’m coming to get you.”
This Care Navigators was on it. She knew the way to the pod, the chair, the monitor and the cuff and a quick check brought total recall on how to use it. Then she shared my date of birth, my name and my blood pressure reading with a man struggling to observe the two-meter guidance, gently swaying from side the side as he reflected out loud on his own CRAFT moment and wondered why he was there.
Results show I am the wrong side of hypertensive.
Note: CRAFT is a term my friend Radiator overheard being used by an Aristocratic looking shopper in Fortnum and Masons. “I’m having a CRAFT moment,” she complained. When her companion asked what that was, she announced, in an upper-class drawl, “can’t remember a f…… thing.”
END
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Image shows multiple red squares with 'The Blind Truth' written inside them.
Having an IT upgrade is not that exciting to me. I know there are some people who are in heaven at the prospect of a five-point switch box. I’m more of a shoe girl myself.
I accidentally pressed “command y” instead of the “t”. I never knew that this is the shortcut to checking out browsing history. I’ve never felt the need to have a shortcut function to look at what I was looking at yesterday, but there it was: shoes, shoes, shoes and shoes. So, when the IT upgrade came I logged on to office 365 and put my username and password in. Three times I tried and was declined access.
All my bad habits conspired to be revealed as I called the helpline. I wasn’t’ on the office 365 site at all. I was on a well-known shoe shop site of similar name. The dear old search engine was only trying to be helpful in taking me to where it thought I wanted to go. I was only being lazy in my use of my zoom function, which reveals but a fraction of the screen, at any point in time. Oh well, while I was there, surely there was no harm in looking, so I did.
If you use screen magnification it’s probably a good idea to get a bit of IT training to orientate you to the new IT environment in which you find yourself, the majority of which you cannot see. I know this now. Knowing it then would have saved a bit of humiliation. It would have saved me having to ring a colleague to ask what the blob on the bottom right of the screen was. “the calendar,” she said. Then for good measure she added, “the blob on the left is mail.”
I probably should have felt a greater sense of shame at the revelation that I am quite such a tech deficient, but I was grateful.
In my upgraded world, I have had a rude awakening. There are a lot of blobs in life that I am clueless about and it seems to me that now is the moment to throw myself on the mercy of my colleagues and hope I am not mocked for these shortcomings. I had also better get on with upgrading my skills.
A long time ago I realised that relying on the Son as the fount of all knowledge was only going to bring misery for us both. Thank goodness he managed to do the basics and I know what a browser is. I’ve also got green and red stickers strategically positioned all over my keyboard, so I know where the shortcut keys are. I just don’t seem to be able to remember what they do.
Upgrading my skills had better be framed as “when it comes to tech I’m an idiot” on the basis it was better to get this observation in before someone else did.
“I doubt that very much,” was the optimistic response.
As the training session got underway, it became painfully clear, painfully quickly, that it could be some time before I could expect to become an alumni. In my defence I have progressed beyond Dropbox. It’s not just my head that is in the clouds. There’s now an unmitigated stream of consciousness that I have committed to the written format.
I am rather enjoying the potential that my new found skills have to offer. There is just one thing bothering me about all of this. If I ever get to a point where I know what I am doing, what do I have to fall back on when it comes to playing the get out of jail free card?
END
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Image is Siobhain Santry's sketch of Anna.
In the holiday between Christmas and New Year the stillness of short dreary days is punctuated with bracing walks and meals. Perhaps its more accurate to say that this is the time to run down the contents of the freezer and eat the left over Brussel Sprouts between strolls. At what point though, are leftovers beyond consumption?
I usually palm off my leftovers on the Right Hand Neighbours. They aren’t squeamish but this year, they’ve declined. Could they be approaching their sell by date or have I approached mine?
The sell by date seems to be fast on the way to expiring. The notion of “best before” is under threat as mountains of perfectly good food ends up in the bin. This is where I like to think I’m ahead of the curve. Only in my late twenties did I realise that “best before” dates on jars or tins existed. Since they are invisible to me I ignore them. I applied common sense in the form of the sniff test. If it smelt OK and it tasted OK, then it probably was OK.
The BF did not share my world view on expiry dates. In 1997 she went through my cupboards and threw out a perfectly good jar of Worcester sauce which declared itself best before November 1986. Since the premise of Worcester sauce is that it is rotten in the first place, I suggest that this bottle was well on it’s way to Christies. The BF has never made recompense for her actions although she has come round to my way of thinking, which is that if it’s growing penicillin its for the bin, but otherwise you’ll probably get another serving out of it.
Herbs and spices are exempt from this rule. They simply turn to dust. You may as well hang on to them. You’ve got nothing to lose.
The Christmas pudding that didn’t get eaten this year has been in my cupboard for years. It’s now in the fridge and will be served up to resistant friends for weeks to come. There are tins of sardines in the larder that have been there before the Son left home. Only opening them will reveal whether or not they may prove terminal. The Best before date has long since passed.
Generally speaking, anything that comes wrapped in plastic which has ballooned to bursting point probably deserves determined inhalation before tasting. I don’t worry about spores. That generally comes after its begun to stink. Its that whiff of “offness” I’m looking for.
One proviso is worth a mention. If you, (that is I who cannot see these things), happen to serve strawberries nestling in a coat of mouldy fur, someone is bound to mention it. Be prepared for criticism. I can evidence this.
Anything that comes unwrapped can probably be turned into soup once it’s past its best. I plan to apply this approach to myself. Once I am past my own sell by date, I can be turned into soup in the hope of providing a nourishing aid to the vegetables that feeds the nation. Woe betide anyone who does not apply the rules of blind food management and doesn’t ignore the “best before” date on the broccoli that I will grow when I’m soup. It won’t be an upset stomach, that comes back to haunt you.
When it comes to food waste, the blind amongst us have led the way. While the sighted majority have worried that “best before” dates are yet another way in which we cannot safely manage life, we know they are talking nonsense. Being blind to the “best before” date, and applying blind sense is where the future lies.
END
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Image shows multiple grey squares with 'The Blind Truth' written inside them.
Some of my relationships have brought great joy. Some have been transitory. Some have been long lasting and deep. None has been quite as shattering as my relationship with glass.
Glass is the unseen menace in my world. Its attentions are largely unwanted and unwelcome. Just when you think you are over it, there it is again, making its presence felt.
An early encounter with toughened glass left me bruised. It was the seventies and I doubt that smearing butter on the resulting lump on my forehead had any medicinal use. The lie down in a darkened room was probably more useful.
Teenage folly meant that I needed more than butter to sooth the lacerations of my next encounter with glass. The resulting lump on the inside of my lip, born of over enthusiastic stitching, has served me well in moment of stress, giving me something else to chew on.
A lucky escape came in trying to put my head through the invisible sash window of an upstairs bedroom in order to shout a fond farewell. At the point of contact, the window fell out. Building maintenance has come a long way since then and I doubt I’d be so lucky now.
My relationship with glass has not always been a happy one, but still I persist. I absolutely adore a really good wine glass. Better still I enjoy having the right glass to drink for the right drink. Wine cannot be drunk out of plastic, as water cannot be drunk out of china.
This purist approach has got me into all sorts of bother. I’ve swooshed glasses off the table resulting in spectacular explosions and tiny slithers of glass everywhere. Two Christmas’s ago I wrecked a carefully constructed table decoration by putting my red wine glass on the step change on the table that I didn’t know was there. I don’t imagine anyone expected to be picking glass out of their Christmas lunch.
I once listened to long account of how the precious glasses from which we were drinking came into the ownership of my host. Then I smashed one. I have carefully carried hand blown liqueur glasses back on a bucket flight only to sweep them up with the rubbish and hurl them out for the bin me.
The depleted state of my glassware, which has happened for reasons now known to just about everyone I know, has led me to think again how to address its shortcomings, and I have concluded that the Champagne coupe must surely be making a comeback. Mine are long since smashed, but in the spirit of having suitable glasses for all eventualities and not finding myself having to drink the Christmas fizz out of a mug, I have been on a mission to buy more glass.
So successful has this mission been that I am now the proud owner of three beautifully proportioned baccarat champagne coups that I found in a charity shop. Buying glass in a charity shops is the best way of managing the sense of waste when you (by which I mean me) inevitably smash a glass.
I could not be more thrilled at the handling of my coupes. They are impeccably balanced with a low enough centre of gravity to offer easy handling. It is this proportion and weighting that offer the best chance of any glass making it through first use in this house. The fizz will definitely taste the better for it.
I hope my new relationship with my champagne coupes will turn out to be long lasting and rewarding (no cracks or chips). If it turns out to be short lived, at least I will have had a smashing time.
END
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Image is Siobhain Santry's sketch of Anna.
The Artist, the one who drives the Rollscanardly, told me that her family played a lot of parlour games when she was growing up. Her siblings were keen on the Name Game. That’s the one where someone writes the name of a famous person on a post it note and sticks this to your forehead. By asking lots of questions you have to figure out who it is. It might have been Mary Queen of Scots or Florence Nightingale. She got the Fat Slag.
In my family we used to play Charades when Fierce Granny came to tea. This was largely because it gave us all something to do to take our mind off Fierce Granny and put her at a disadvantage if she got landed with “Wacky Races”, which she invariably did.
We were more Lionel Blair than Marcel Marceau with our brash, exaggerated and unrelenting house style. We were encouraged to make large gestures for the benefit of the “gozzy” one (that would be me) amongst us. Often this would be accompanied by a murmured narration of what was going on, as well as a lot of guess work and shouting. It never networked.
Other people’s family gaming traditions can be equally eccentric, but not as eccentric as their approach to involving a player who can’t see to play the game.
There was the board game where one player rolled the dice on my behalf and another one moved my counter up and down the board. Someone else read out my forfeits, but needless to say, it was me that had to do them. Once I had to stand outside and shout “Fish frying tonight”. Worse was to follow.
There are practically no good party games, with the exception of the Hat Game, which is played sitting down, requires no leaping about after too much turkey or rum butter, and allows all players free reign when it comes to describing the famous, as well as the next door neighbour, and best of all; you don’t need to be able to see to be good at it.
At the second of this years’ family Christmas lunches, held in shifts to accommodate the completing needs of in-laws and out-laws, parlour games raised their ugly head. A palpable wave of horror ran through me. This was compounded by the discovery that not only were we all going to play games but, we were going to log on to the internet and suffer a small fee what you have always been able to suffer for free.
Using our phones and tablets “as controllers” we were going to play “the wildest” “the weirdest” comedy contest game with up to ten logged on players and an audience of thousands. I was about to demonstrate that a winning quip requires accuracy in its execution. When you only have seconds, not even the Zoom function on an iPad is enough.
Like the public humiliation of having your blind bowling score illuminated for the world to see, or being asked to take part in a karaoke contest in which you know you can only mouth the song, I had my answers and comic reposts laid out before an unsuspecting audience. Or at least, I had half of them laid out and not one in it’s finished form.
As the answers flashed up on the TV screen on the other side of the room, everyone laughed and pointed at I know not what. I was not amongst the top scorers. It was all lost on me.
I put down my iPad and harrumphed a fast quip. There is nothing like throwing a tantrum to win in the game of family life. Harrumph is always Top Trumph.
Image is Siobhain Santry's drawing of a grey ribbon with The Blind Truth written on it.
My friend, Septic Tank, likes to watch films with the audio description on. It saves her husband the bother of having to listen out for that often asked question “What’s happening now?” There will be no snoozing in the cinema for him without the sought after audio description.
She and I had a concerted effort to see more theatre and despite our distain for the musical, we couldn’t resist #Fiddler on the Roof. We’re soppy like that. There were a couple of audio described performances, one of which happened before it officially opened and one soon after that. Perhaps management was worried about my critical eye. Nobody told us that out of a total run of months we had a choice of two. Blink and you’ve missed it.
“Thank you for helping us identify a training issue,” the shift supervisor at #The Vue said after the latest audio description failure. “The Manager will be in touch with you within two weeks.” She gave me two more free tickets which I’ve lost. I never heard from them again. Needless to say, they heard from me. One more crack pot blinky with too much time on their hands and nothing better to do couldn’t move them to break their silence.
No matter how many times I say “don’t”, even the best of friends can’t help but interpret rather than describe the action, and often predict what is going to happen next. They can no more resist a helpful “told you so” than chocolate. Art reflect life.
Audio description is proving illusive. Friends are good humoured about it, but its hard to follow the audio description rules and I don’t always end up sitting next to the perfect commentator. Professional audio description is the best. It’s the difference between “they kiss with increasing passion…he pulls her towards him…he gently lowers her to the ground…..light fades” being piped privately through headphones in to your ears, or the person next to you leaning in and, to the annoyance of everyone around you, saying in an audible whisper “They’re shagging.”
The flatmate has a predisposition to fall asleep at the cinema. How soon she falls asleep and how loudly she snores is directly inverse to the price of the ticket. The more expensive the ticket the sooner she slumps and starts to snort. Asking for regular updates is a public service that saves my fellow film goers from unnecessary auditory distractions because it keeps her awake. She usually responds to the “what’s happening now?” question, even if her head is down and her eyes closed. I’ve only had to slap her once.
I took number two God daughter and her brother to see #Warhorse. It wasn’t audio described and no one attempted to tell me what was going on until a small child leant in and whispered very slowly in my ear, “They’re speaking German now so you won’t be able to understand what’s going on. I’ll translate if you like.”
“That’s alright,” I said, not wanting to be outwitted by a seven-year old. “Ich bin ein Berliner.” Hoisted by my own petard, he helpfully provided a description in German. Afterwards he said that he had never known I spoke German. “Let’s go for a pizza,” I said, but only if we speak English or French.”
“Merci,” he said.
I went with The Dynamo to watch #1917 (one hell of a film). The cinema was half empty and everyone had decided to sit in the middle, so we were completely surrounded, which made me think twice before asking “what’s happening now?”
“I’m not really sure,” she said. “Hard to describe.”
Cinema is definitely better with a professional whisper in the ear.
Image shows multiple red squares with 'The Blind Truth' written inside them.
“The moment has come. Centuries from now almost all human beings have lost the ability to see.” So says the trailer for #Apple TV’s new series “See”.
To set the scene, “Some say that sight was taken from them by God.”
“No kidding,” I say.
“But something’s different. After so many years. The children. They have the ability to see.”
“Whoopee do,” I marvel.
No. The power of sight is what you might describe as “magical” or “evil”.
“Not that old chestnut”. I thought it was the other way round. On one hand a punishment from God. On the other hand, damned if you can see. All this helpfully provided with subtitles.
There are armies of blind people galloping about on horses, wielding swords and spoiling for a good dust up. Blindness does not seem to get in the way of a really good fight. “See” it would seem, is doing for war what #”Scent of a Woman” did for pheromones.
I know a few people that I wouldn’t want to cross for fear of a poke in the eye with a white stick, but honestly and truly, I’m not losing any sleep about the possibility of visually impaired folk raising an army to take on the rest of humanity, not even to save the planet.
It’s not a spoiler to say, that of course, its not all fighting and reproducing. Hundreds of blind people crossing a knackered suspension bridge do plunge to their death in a moment of blind madness. Is that supposed to be funny or tragic? I’m not sure. If I say what I thought, I’m bound to offend someone.
This might all turn out to be a bit of good old fashioned knock about fun but the cast seem to be treating it pretty seriously. They had a coach called Paradox Pollock teaching them how blind people move. Wonderful. They wore black out masks to get them into the groove of what it’s like to be blind. The story of playing blind is nearly as gripping as the trailer. https://www.radiotimes.com/news/on-demand/2019-11-01/see-cast-act-blind-apple-tv/ . Me thinks they do over egg the experience of stumbling about in the dark for a bit, then hey presto, off with the blackout mask before the drive home. Try catching a bus you can’t see. It’s not a paradox. It’s pollocks with a capital “B”.
In the depths of my memory is a conversation between a blind and sighted man in which the sighted man explains that when he closes his eyes, or lies in bed in the dark, he gets a really good sense of what it’s like to be blind. “So what happens when you open your eyes or switch the light on?” asked the blind man.
“I can see again,” says the sighted man.
“Then you have absolutely no idea of what it’s like to be blind.”
There is a redeeming feature to all this blood lust. It has provided employment opportunities to a couple of partially sighted actors. Good for them and how very broad minded of #Apple TV. That must have put them into a health and safety spin. I wonder if they let them carry a sword and drink a hot cup of tea at the same time. Alfre Woodard, who plays Paris, thinks that if the show continues they might even have a blind person playing a blind person. How enlightened. A blind person doing blindness.
The truth should never get in the way of a good story. After all, I confess, I’m looking forward to series three of #”The Crown”. I might even watch #”See”. It could be big on laughs.
Image is Siobhain Santry's drawing of Anna.
“Where’s the exit?’ I asked, trying to beat a retreat from Café Nero Piccadilly.
“First door,” my tea drinking companion replied.
If you have ever been curious about what lives in the cupboards of cafes, I can put you out of your misery: There are more loo rolls than have ever been gathered together in one place. There are buckets, industrial quantities of cleaning material to deal with dirt and spilt urine. Then there are wet mops. I’m not talking damp. I’m talking “open the doors and in your face wet”. Any thoughts, about the union of mop, water, bodily fluids and face are best put aside at the moment of impact.
As I beat off the onslaught of tumbling loo rolls and wet stinking mop, I could hear the rise of an ovation from the room. It was more of a sit down outpouring of nervous amusement and relief, that “it was me not me” followed by an applause of pity.
“Not the first door then,” I mumbled.
“I am leaving now,” said my companion, and departed.
I have investigated more cupboards than most people can shake a duster at. If you tell me it’s the first door on the left, that is the door I will open. All other doors are invisible to me.
In a late night triste with a lock and key in Sofia, I spent so long trying to getting to get into the wrong door of my new building, for the residents to become alert to the possibilities of burglary. Rescued by a friend, I was contrite. She was indulgent. When I repeated this performance the following evening, she was less sympathetic. “What door number are you at?”
“No idea,” I said, as I formulated a plan to try my key in all available doors and hope no one called the Police.
Since the day I tried to get into the hot food cupboard on an aircraft, I prefer to take advise, on all possible other types of doors. One twist of the wrong handle may cause a chill wind for all my fellow travellers.
“Can you tell me the way to the ladies,” I asked security as I was leaving number 10 Downing street. “First door on the left Madam.” That’s what I opened. There was the red smiling face of Henry Hoover staring back at me. That’s the vacuum cleaner, not the person. I find it hard to conceive of Henry gliding through the halls of power in much the same way as he glides across the floors of Acacia Avenue.
I have begun to suspect, that what is obviously not the exit door or the way to the lav, for most people, may be a blind spot for me. I’ve developed door rules of thumb.
If the door is not as tall as me, or seems impossibly narrow, I shut it again. These doors carry the threat of a mop in the face. Hot doors should be avoided at all costs. The continental habit of leaving glass doors open to the street, may be one that should be up for review. I haven’t met one yet that didn’t come off worse than me. If there is the slightest risk of having to enter a door code, make someone else do it. If I feel I may be at risk of prising anything open with my fingernails, my guess is that this is a wall masquerading as a door, and not in the consciousness of my advisors.
The point of advisors is to advise on the unseen as well as the obvious. It’s easier to change advisors than to change doors.
Image shows multiple grey squares with 'The Blind Truth' written inside them.
In the six months that I have been working form home, I have been meaning to secure my passwords, which are now abundant. I’m with an on line system. I can just about remember the password to get onto the site, but t’s so long ago since anyone explained how to use the system, that I will probably get locked out.
Getting locked out was once a job for a socially awkward man who arrived in a van that said “Locksmith” on the side. He knew how to gain entry to your house without a key. Getting “locked out” nowadays means hours on the phone to people who remind you that it’s your responsibility to make arrangements for the recovery of your passwords and that the measure they have put in place to lock you out of your bank account are for your own good. That said, it could be a technical failure at their end. If you lose your tempter at the thought of having slogged your guts out only to find you can’t get at your hard earned cash, the call is immediately terminated.
I bitterly regret my lack of attention to password management. I’ve locked myself out of my on line credit card account. In the time I have spent on hold, a locksmith could have fitted security locks to every point of entry to my house and probably stopped for a cup of tea and a blather about how long he spent on hold when he locked himself out of his on line bank account.
The dear old credit card company are trying their best At least, that’s what they say. They have repeatedly told me that they are “helping” a lot of people at the moment and will get me to their customer service team as quickly as they can. Unfortunately, wait times can be up to an hour.
Last week I finally got through to customer service who text me a special code. They did it several times but it never landed in time for me to enter this code within the allotted time. It wasn’t all their fault. I explained that I wasn’t visually equipped for fast IT manoeuvres. “That’s the system,” the gabbling Shona explained. We had a good tempered discussion about alternative ways to resolve the problem then the line went dead. It was #Argos all over again.
A wide experience of sitting on unanswered customer service calls by people who are “helping a lot of people” has led me to appreciate why being “helped” is such an infuriating experience and causes people to lose their temper.
I know better than to fly into a rage when I’m being “helped”. I also know that making clever comments at the expense of the person who is allegedly “helping” won’t help. What I have also come to learn is that “help” has an increasingly narrow definition. If you should happen to say, “I can’t see to do that at that speed,” you may as well have said “I hate helpful people like you”. Either way is a good way to get the phone put down on you.
If that happens you may feel the need to indulge in a bit of door slamming to let off steam. Just make sure that you have your keys in your hand. If you lock yourself out and you can’t get your credit card to work, you could be sitting on the doorstep for a very long time. Thank goodness for the Right Hand Neighbour who has risen to the challenge on the numerous occasions I have been too stupid to help myself and have left home with neither cash, credit card or keys.
Image is Siobhain Santry's drawing of a grey ribbon with The Blind Truth written on it.
I’ve been cursing the turn of the month and the annual arrival of bees up the nose which are a fair indication that the start of a winter cold is upon me.
Those bees really went for it. By day two they had made their way into ears and throat and had started to become a bit of a nuisance. No matter how much I coughed they weren’t going anywhere. They’d settled in to ensure a generous level of infection. It wasn’t honey.
By day four, doubt crept in and settled. Should I get a Covid test? Probably. Better to be safe than sorry. So I went on line and booked it. Within the hour I was at the gates of the walk in test centre.
It all went smoothly until it didn’t go smoothly. It didn’t go smoothly.
“Just follow the instruction,” she said.
“I can’t see them.”
“The thing is, I’m not allowed to help you. You have to do it yourself. Hang on.” Then she vanished.
“We don’t have any braille,” she said when she returned.
“I can’t read braille. I’m more of a large print girl myself.”
“I’m not allowed to help you and we don’t have large print. I don’t think it’s going to be possible to do the test.”
“Well how about you just talk me though it step by step.”
Hats off for an extremely efficient description at every step of the way.
Thumbs down for the assembled staff providing an audience and a site “Mighty” manager who was “just the contractor” and indifferent in his dismissal.
The advice leaflet that comes with the self-testing kit, at the walk in centre, helpfully suggests that if you are having a problem you should “use your vehicle hazard lights and wait for someone to come and assist you.” I should have brought one of the Grand’s “nee nah” toy cars. Maybe that’s where I went wrong. You can never lay your hands on toy with flashing lights when you need one.
While I slept, those bees got to work and there was no putting it off. I limbered up for a Vivaldi experience. A Vivaldi experience, is the hours that anyone calling their local GP practice will spend on hold as they snake their way up the telephone queue.
I’ll skip the bit about the Care Navigator and go straight to the Nurse Practitioner. If I thought I was having an off day, it was as nothing compared to the day she was having.
Once we’d got over the challenge of describing where to go and how to get there and settled on how she would be able to tell that I was me, we fixed a time for her to “have a listen.”
The rattle rattled and then I stuck my tongue out. “Oh yes, I can see that your tonsils are very red,” she said and took a step back.
“That’s odd. I don’t have any tonsils.”
“You must think me really unprofessional,” she said as more humiliations followed.
The mask of efficiency had slipped. What was revealed was a humanity in our exchange that altered the encounter from efficient coolness to warm, and from warmth to satisfaction.
I cannot help but reflect that so much of the way that we “care” for our health is, ironically enough, delivered without thought to our individual differences. Covid has put the tin lid on it. Government accepts the recommendations to make health services accessible to everyone, and that includes the Covid test. We need something beyond the “Mighty” roll out of testing.
Illness is hard enough without having to stand your ground. Not everyone is as bloody minded as me.
Image is Siobhain Santry's drawing of Anna/
The Flatmate (that was), is now up to her neck in Italian Politics and any chit chat has to be by appointment and booked ahead. We have a provisional date for a week on Sunday.
In the meantime, she has celebrated living half a century. Obviously, I was not invited, because of “IT” and the collapse of air travel. I sent her a phone charger and a packet of pants for her Birthday. These are things that I know she is always short of because, mysteriously, I am now short of them.
The Goddaughter was in my kitchen while I was wrapping up the parcel. I said to her, tongue in cheek, “I think anyone would be delighted to receive a phone charger cable and a packet of pants for their Birthday, don’t you?”
“No,” she said. “It’s a bloody awful.”
“What can you possibly mean?”
“I’m not being funny, but if it were me, I’d prefer Gucci to a packet of pants and a manky old phone cable.”
It was true. She was not being funny.
I tried to redeem myself, holding up a basket I had made especially for the Flatmate (that was) Birthday. The Goddaughter examined it and scowled in disapproval. “Definitely not Gucci.”
On my way back from the Post Office I sent the Flatmate (that was) a WhatsApp to explain to her that I’d sent her a present to make her laugh, but that it wasn’t Gucci.
A couple of weeks elapsed and I began to doubt the wisdom of my gift. Then a series of messages landed to say the present had arrived, and she had laughed and that the basket would live in her bathroom. This is inspired as I will never enter the realms of her bathroom so if she was horrified and feels the need to re-purpose the basket for firelighters, I will never know.
When I came home yesterday a letter from Italy was waiting for me. I couldn’t read it because it was handwritten and handwriting is not an easy thing to read. I sent a text asking if the flatmate (that was) could offer up a synopsis. She said I had better get someone else to read it to me. By great good fortune the honour fell to the Goddaughter as the first person across my threshold.
I have been the lucky recipient of a letter setting out the joy of friendship: a friendship that came about by a chance introduction in Sofia and has taken in various locations, quite a bit of salad, several editions of Newsnight and the Archers.
The Goddaughter was impressed with the sentiment, but wondered where Ambridge was and who Kirsty and Philip were. I explained that Philip is a crook and that the sooner Kirsty clicks on and dumps him, the better. She wondered about the BBC’s involvement in this scandal. I explained that neither Ambridge, Philip or Kirsty were real and that the Covid editions had been a poor show with neither the BBC or Philip coming out of this well. The Goddaughter was perplexed. In fairness to her I looked perplexed when she tried to explain the difference between beeswax polish and Mr Sheen. “You can’t use beeswax on that cupboard,” she’d told me. When I asked why, she rolled her eyes in disbelief that I, who have been polishing furniture since before she was born, could have such a gap in my understanding of household management. “You only use beeswax on certain types of wood,” she’d explained. “Not on that cupboard.”
The Goddaughter and the Flatmate (that was) have both enriched my life, in their words and in their deeds. I feel lucky in my friendships.
Image shows multiple red squares with 'The Blind Truth' written inside them.
The Grand was having his morning nap. The Son was working away in another room and not to be disturbed. The DiL got out her laptop and was busy. I decided to take myself off for a walk.
I thought I’d go for a mooch, have a look at the house I lived in when I was a student. It was not how I remember it. I’d take that walk across the common that I used to do. It had changed. Not even the old laundrette where we sat for hours listening to the sound of our clothes on an endless spin cycle, was the same.
It began to rain so I went in search of a café I once frequented. It was there but not the same. At the counter I asked the server if he could bring the tea and the muffin to the table. He said he could. I paid with my card and missed. He gently took my hand and guided it to the point of the card reader bleeping and then let go. “I’ll bring it over,” he said. If you do a 180 degree turn there’s an empty table about two meters behind you.”
“Thanks, that’s great.”
As I put my card away I noticed a large sign on the counter. “experienced Barrister wanted. Apply within.” What did a coffee shop want with a Barrister?
At the table I picked at the muffin and played with the tea bag, moving it around in the cup. If this cafe had cause to revert to the law, this was a funny way of going about finding legal counsel. If it were me, I’d google it, or ask Siri to find me solicitors within a mile of here. Advertising seemed an unorthodox way of going about it.
“Is everything alright?” the server asked.
“Oh fine, lovely. Thank you.”
“It’s just that you look worried.”
“Just thinking.”
Now I could have taken the opportunity to ask why the café were advertising for a Barrister, but I didn’t. I finished my muffin and sipped at my tea. I had to spin it out because I could hear that the rain was still coming down outside. So there I sat, perpetually checking my phone and wondering how desperate the café’s legal conundrum was.
The phone rang. I saw a long since contacted name pop up “How lovely to hear from you, how are you?”
“The same as I was when I spoke to you earlier.” Without the benefit of detail, I’d guessed wrong.
“I thought you were someone else.” We chatted and then I reverted to my now cold tea. Outside, it was still raining.
Time moved on and there was no putting it off. I would have to brave the weather. “Let me get the door for you,” the server said.
“I’ve been putting it off because of the rain,” I explained.
” It’s not raining any more. It’s the background sounds we play. You’re not the first person to notice that. It’s not raining outside any more.”
As I walked down the road it occurred to me that they weren’t looking for a Barrister but a Barista; someone to make the coffee, from the Italian for bartender.
In my world, a Barrister is more expected than a Barista. That is how I made sense of a sign I could not clearly read. When the phone rang I saw Julia not Julie. Small visual mistakes can make the world of difference to how you see the world.
You would think I would have learnt, by now, that if something seems unlikely then it probably is. Hope continues to triumphs over experience.
Image is Siobhain Santry's drawing of a Barrister behind a café counter.
The Toad is right up there with the viper when it comes to expressions of morality in literature. He’s the method by which feminine goodness is put to the test and the punishment for mean or shrewish behaviour. What then, is the meaning of this?
I like to sit in the garden when it’s dark. The cloak of darkness brings privacy and I enjoy that moment when the sun fades and a feeling of stillness begins to make its presence felt. There is a big old rat that takes short cuts across the garden. I’ve never seen it but others have. The rat doesn’t bother me and I don’t bother the rat. So, when I heard a rustling in the shrubbery I assumed that was just Ratty making his nightly foray into next doors garden. It was not.
Tilting an ear for clues as to what that was, lurking in the undergrowth, a toad hopped onto the seat next to me and settled itself in. I knew it was a toad because I had initially mistaken it for a fallen leaf. Putting my hand down to sweep it away was how the toad and I became acquainted.
Acquainted might be a bit of a stretch. It was more of a blind date moment when you suddenly realise that you had better make your escape, by any means possible, for fear of impending physical proximity. I fled inside, but as I was closing the kitchen door, the toad made a dash for it and vanished into, or under, the sofa.
The Right Hand Neighbour was away so I needed a plan. I am not the first woman to have wondered how to dislodge a toad from the sofa but I might be the first one to have done it with Tupperware. With little chance of being able to see my unwelcome guest, I threw down Tupperware containers in the hope of entrapment, and waited for the sound of toad against plastic. Not on the first attempt, it has to be said, it worked. Once caught, I threw him out.
Cleaning up the mess was not the end of the matter. The toad was throwing himself against the door and was still at it when I switched off the lights and went to bed.
It’s habitual, to throw open the kitchen door first thing in the morning. In came the toad. It was no good trying to deter him. Once a toad commits to a course of action he has no choice but to see it through. He simply doesn’t have the means to reverse, but he did have all the toad moves. Not even Tupperware could do it this time. What was I to do? Should I call for assistance and change the locks?
I’ve been vigilant. I didn’t want to live with a toad but that toad now makes himself known whenever he gets a chance. He’s leapt courgettes, scaled tables, settled on benches and even tried to share a glass of water.
No matter how revolted I am at the prospect of the companionship of a toad, he’s ground me down. Unless I stay inside with the doors locked or can impose upon the Right Hand Neighbour to lie in wait, I’m stuck with that toad.
I cannot help but wonder if, in the telling of this tale, it should be woven as a test of femininity, in which it took a toad to show me the error of my selfish ways. Or, is it simply that if you can’t reliably see that toad you are probably stuck with him?
The toad has moved in. I’m thinking of naming him Roger or Trevor. That’s another story.
Image is Siobhain Santry's drawing of Anna siting on her coach with a big green toad lounging next to her.
The topiary at the top of my garden is definitely due a hair cut. I’ve resisted doing it myself because a lack of three dimensional vision has lead me to the conclusion that I have no skills in this department. Months of covid lockdown have lead me to the same conclusion about my own hair. The only thing that I can say about cutting my own hair is that it would be shorter.
Some relief has come about, over recent days, at the thought of a garden that is running wild, inhabited by an owner with wild hair, once clipped to within an inch of their lives. It has come about because I lost my reading glasses. I lost them without noticing, which shows how much use they are.
I have been looking for my readers, for over a week now. I have looked in the dishwasher. I have done a meticulous finger search of nearly ten days of household waste. I have been through the mounting bags of charity shop donations as well as the ironing, the washing and my phone book, asking anyone who has dropped off food at my door, or sat in my garden for the proverbial two-yard cuppa, to check they have not taken them away with them.
Relief was at hand. Not the glasses, but the availability of a hair dressers appointment and gardening assistance. I’ve waited for months and both came along on the same day.
“Ewe. I’ve found a pair of glasses in your flowerbed,” said the garden support team. “Are they yours?”
I must have lost them leaning over a plant I inspected, working out whether or not I should pull it up and consign it to the recycling, or water it. The blind truth of the matter is that I didn’t notice the scattering of spectacles in the flower bed and sprinkled them with a light dusting of mushroom compost that had to go somewhere because the bag burst.
One look at the glasses told me they were beyond redemption. Getting a replacement pair is proving harder than expected. I need an up to date prescription. That is, I don’t need an up to date prescription as it makes no difference to me. The Opticians seem to think it’s important. A quick e-mail revealed that not only was my Optomitrist on his hols but he’d gone to Slough for his respite. On his return he tells me that my prescription is in storage in Coventry and not to bother asking why. I don’t.
When I explain to my local high street provider that I don’t need an eye test, my ten-year-old prescription will do, no one rings me back. I suspect they suspect I’m calling from #Down The Line. Their fear of making a fool of themselves in front of Radio 4 listeners trumps further enquiry. Who in their right mind would buy reading glasses with an out of date prescription?
A good dousing in #Fairy Liquid and hot water has eliminated most of the mushroom compost staining. The blur is much the same as it ever was, apart from the large blob in the middle of the left lens, so I have started wearing the readers again, at a tilt to counter balance the blob.
In the drive for better looking glasses I lost my chance to book a hair appointment. I can probably do without one, but unlike the prescription for my reader, there is always room for improvement. I will be nothing if not persistent. The garden is looking beautiful, although not by my hand.
Image is Siobhain Santry's drawing of Anna's face.
If you attend one of the great masked balls of Venice, its said that you will not recognise your own reflection in the waters of the Grand Canal. With anonymity assured, anything goes. So the question is, dare you enter the world of masquerade and let go of your inhibitions from behind the secrecy of a sophisticated and stylish face covering?
The rules of social distancing forbid such cavorting. Anyway, the three-layer paper mask, in fetching medical blue or gorgeous medical white, does not offer the seductive powers of carnival and is more asphyxiation than intoxication. On the grounds that it has to be done and you should probably try everything once, I’ve been giving it a go.
The on line advice is that you should wear a mask unless it obscures your residual vision. Sitting in my kitchen it didn’t. The on line advice is also to practice walking about at home to get used to it. I did it for a week and every time I moved my head I couldn’t help but wobble. Even though I didn’t fancy a lie down, I felt it may be forced upon me with every step. So, I had a sit down and a think. This was a job for the long cane.
My cane technique is improving with the demands of Covid. The cane is like getting your head round your computer. You might not fancy it, but the more you flex the muscle the better it feels and the more in command you are of what you are doing.
Off I set in the quest for the veg that I had forgotten to order on line. The heavens opened and by the time I arrived at the point of “are you the end of the queue?” I doubt I was recognisable to even the most ardent of carnival goer. On the up side, this was life and I was living it.
“Next customer,” came the command from oblivion.
“Do you mean me?”
“I need you to go this way?”
“Which way do you mean? Can you say the way?”
“That way?”
“This way or that doesn’t mean anything to me. I can’t see.”
“Over there.”
“Hello,” I drawled, waving my cane about.
“Next customer.”
“OK, I’m coming in.”
“Unbelievable,” came a low murmur from behind me. She did not mean me.
“I’m turning right for tomatoes,” I bellowed and pressed ahead.
Amazing what I find I am prepared to do, and broadcast about, in my love of a baby plumb.
I needn’t have bothered with any of this, because round the corner, John and Bill, and their veg, stall were back. I knew because I heard John shout at me. “Didn’t the cough carry you off?”
“Not dead yet then?” I batted back.
“Have a tomato Love.’
I did and then I bought another half kilo for good measure.
Hardiness is a quality that I temporarily misplaced last Saturday in the rain. I’m taking the view that, even with a cane, the wobble may not be a price worth paying if I have a hope of remaining upright. I’ve been on line again. I’ve downloaded the badge that says “I am exempt from wearing a face covering.” I hope I won’t need to use it, but if John and Bill ever run out of tomatoes, I might just need it.
The weight of all those tomatoes impeded my usual desire for a walk home. I had a sit down on the bus and wore my face mask all the way. While I wasn’t moving I wasn’t wobbling. Good job it wasn’t standing room only.
This might not be Venice, but a mask is simply a must if you can.
Image shows multiple grey squares with 'The Blind Truth' written inside them.
I have had a glimpse of Hell. I have swum the waters of the Styx and crawled up the bank on the far side. I did it all in the hunt for the single stem garden plant support.
When I say I swam, it might be nearer the truth to say that I sweated my way up the hill in a waterproof in more humidity than I anticipated. Having spent half an hour in this endeavour, I arrived at the gates of hell to be met by a stout woman in a green apron and fetching matching blue face mask and rubber gloves.
“May I go straight in?” I asked, pointing at the gaping jaws that opened and closed as they spewed out shoppers and ingested the unsuspecting.
“Get away from me she commanded.” Her large blue hand extending towards my face Lord Kitchener style. “Move,” she barked. I took a step back. “You’ll have to queue.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t realise there was a queue,” I said, vaguely wafting the all purpose cane about in front of me.
“Well there is.” She turned away.
“Where do I need to go? ” I asked.
She didn’t answer but started a conversation with someone else. I blundered about a bit and took out a couple of posts that were strung together with invisible cord to denote the place we had to queue to pass through gates of Hell.
As we snaked our way forward, our instructor said to the man in front of me. “it’s so nice when people think about others and OBSERVE the social distancing rules. Thank you. It’s lovely when people are considerate, unlike SOME people.”
“Take a trolley and you can go in.”
“I don’t need a trolley,” I said, doing a bit more cane jiggling.
“It’s the rule. If you don’t take a trolley you can’t go in.” I took the trolley and wobbled towards the entrance.
There must have been a roaring trade in hazard tape because they seem to have completely sold out, and had resorted to, giving us poor sinners, mere clues. We navigated our way through the circles of damnation; through lighting, bathroom fixtures, all the way to paint and garden accessories with the merest hint of a clue provided by grey arrows on a grey floor, which everyone largely ignored. There was not a blue fingered angel in sight to guide us on our way.
Magically, help was at hand. The single stem plant support was in stock and could be found in one of three places. Disappointingly, that particular bit of magic was a mere illusion. None of the three places yielded it up. All was not lost though, because they were definitely in stock. It was just that nobody knew where they were.
I didn’t know where I was either.
Having spent an afternoon crashing about in #Homebase, in a state of infernal damnation, in search of enlightenment, I now found myself at that special place in Hell, reserved for Brexiteers and hapless shoppers like me. I was in the final circle of damnation, where the chill winds, of having to pay for the privilege, now penetrated my bones, to the cry of “cards only”. This too, was a commandment that had passed me by.
Having breached the first blind commandment of Covid, “though shalt not go shopping,” I had looked the dangers of disobedience in the face and survived. With a scaled back bus timetable, I had met and surpassed my daily exercise ambitions and managed a couple of grumpy exchanges with real people in real time. Then I did what anyone else would have done. I went on line. Delivery is tomorrow.
Image is Siobhain Santry's drawing of Lord Kitchener wearing a face mask and blue latex gloves pointing.
What Covid 19 has given me is sleep. I’m touching wood. I don’t want to speak too soon. I’ve got my fingers crossed, which is not an easy thing to do when typing. I can’t remember when I slept like this. I’m hoping that the long deep sleeps of the past few weeks are a permanent legacy of this killer cough.
The daily routines that have taken over my world don’t mean that I am stuck in a rut or feeling constrained. My mind is free to wander from the comfortable confines of home. My imagination is enjoying the freedom that being at home has given me.
It was all going so well until GP and I had an altercation on the phone, before a compromise was reached. It necessitated an early morning trudge up the hill for a blood test. It meant going to hospital, a place I had intended to avoid, a place where you had better stick to the rules on social distancing.
The white stick is a simple aid to enabling others to stick to the rules. They can see me looming towards them and have time to get out of the way, which is not a core skill I am going to develop, let alone stick to.
After the argy bargy about getting directions I pitched up in phlebotomy. I could have said blood testing, but phlebotomy sounds better. The phlebotomist, said she was expecting me. “Come this way Susan.”
“I’m not Susan.”
“Date of birth?” she asked without flinching.
“Did you say you were born in fifty-two or sixty-two?”
“Sixty-two.”
“Are you not Susan?”
This begs an important question. Is make-up an essential purchase during lockdown?
As the phlebotomist tightened the rubber band round my arm something went twang in my head. This was the first time in weeks that anyone had touched me. “just a little prick” she said. The blood did not flow. “Maybe try the other arm,” she said.
Two goes. My luck was in. “A little prick,” followed by a short silence. Nothing, not a drop.
“I’ll try a different needle.”
Two phlebotomists, five rubber band snapping, finger tapping, needle jiggling, one artery spewing later, the blood was taken. “There you go Susan. All done.”
“I’m not Susan.”
You never know. She might have come back for another go.
It might not have been the touch of bonne amie, or a guiding hand, or love in the afternoon. It was only the professional touch of surgical gloves, but it was touch. It was all I could do not to break the rules and put my hands on my face with the wonder of it. So when the phone rang and and a strangled voice wanted to know if I was “Mrs Taylor,” I said I was even though I’m not. “This is the surgery,” she said. ” Nothing to worry about. I’m ringing with a bit of good news. You qualify for a free pneumonia vaccination.”
My interest was peaked. “What’s exactly is that?” I asked.
“It’s an injection.”
“But what is it?” I persisted.
“An injection? Well it’s a little prick in the arm.”
“That’s the means of delivery. I’d like to understand what it is and why I qualify.”
“I don’t know,” she said. “It wont’ be today, but shall I get the doctor to call you? “
“That’s a good idea,” I agreed as I felt my chances of another good touching session slipping away.
A week elapsed and the GP’s PA called to say I didn’t need a pneumonia vaccination after all. “Why is that?” I asked.
“I don’t know Mrs Taylor.”
“I’m not Mrs Taylor.”
I think I might have snarled.
Image is Siobhain Santry's drawing inspired by the hands reaching out to touch in the famous Michelangelo painting: 'Creation of Adam'. The hand on the left is a delicate one, with some bright red nail polish.
After weeks of being at home, I’ve got used to dressing down. I’m not so feral as to sit at my computer in my best blouse with only my underwear and a pair of Disney themed slippers, but I’m beginning to hanker after the idea of dressing up.
The draw of an opportunity for a big night out in the company of three chickens and five friends, under a gazebo, was the thrill of the week. What should you wear to dinner when you are no longer used to dressing up and the chicken is not on the table but under it?
There is an argument for rubber boots. The chickens do not have the social graces of the friends, who generally speaking, are able to exercise self control and don’t necessitate the need for waterproof footwear. The argument in favour of protective footwear may be well made but after weeks of living in trainers and padding about in bare feet, I have been feeling the urge to exercise my personal fetish and put on proper grown up shoes.
Some people can carry off blue nubuck footwear and a pair of tired old jeans, but I am not one of them. I would need to find something to wear with “THE SHOES”, and began to regret the amount of ruthless wardrobe clearing that has gone on over lockdown. In the history of blue dresses, I have reached a low point, because the multiples of blue are now history
Without the benefit of the Flatmate’s critical eye, and with a seriously reduced number of blue dresses that could be relied upon, even if the blind truth of the matter was that most of them were long past being reliable, I was on my own. For the first time in a while, a critical assessment of what I looked like was down to me. Just to add a little spice into proceedings, the well ordered content of my wardrobe was now strewn across the room.
Oh how I regret the impatience of my choices in not adding some kind of tactile marker that would help sort out the navy from the black. The long suffering neighbour might be good with boilers and exploding microwaves but when it comes to sorting through hosiery, it’s probably fairly safe to assume this may not be his forte. Who was I to put this to the test?
It was time to do something different, but what?
In a serious departure from “blue”, I might have to go “red”. I would rely on my own sense of “how it felt” to me, and not worry about what anyone else thought about the hem line or the neckline or whether this was suitable attire for the company of chickens.
I went for the #Bombshell dress. If it’s good enough for #Nigella, who famously cooked her way to fame in a #Bombshell, it’s good enough for me. Mine is red tartan and I feel fabulous wearing that dress. Perhaps dressing for a feeling is better than depending on what other people see and say. What other people said about this departure to “red” only added to the feeling of joy in my #Bombshell dress.
What about the chickens? I thought they were colour blind. I was wrong. They are #tetrachromatic and have a superior colour range that even takes in ultraviolet light. This might be the only advantage that a chicken has over me.
By the time I tucked myself in under the gazebo it was dark and a bit on the chilly side. All gratitude goes to the coverall coat, but if you cut me in half, the blues are gone. I’m red tartan through and through.
Image is Siobhain Santry's drawing of Anna in a bright dress and striking that famous Marilyn Monroe pose from 'The Seven Year Itch'.
The BF has taken up jigsaw puzzles. She’s currently doing a one thousand piecer of the 99 most beautiful places she won’t be going to any time soon.
My neighbours have got cupboards full of jigsaw puzzles. They have even got up to the moment puzzles that their grown up children have given them for their Birthdays, so they wont get bored during lockdown.
There has been a lot of WhatsApp action about jigsaw puzzles on The Road WhatsApp group. I can’t say I’m up for jigsaws even though I once enjoyed doing them. Pleading failing sight doesn’t disqualify me since you can get jigsaws in braille and in large pieces and all VAT exempt. I’ve checked. Most of them represent landscapes that I won’t be visiting any time soon and it doesn’t look as if any one else has either, at least, not since Queen Elizabeth’s been on the throne.
The Road WhatsApp group is facilitating a roaring trade in buttons and old duvet covers as sewing machines swing into action to boost reserves of scrubs and masks. It’s keeping us all in sourdough and ant killer. We shop for each other. It’s generous and Its brought neighbours together. As more than one or two people have observed, it’s made us all “vigilant” as we look out for one another.
The WhatsApp group is not the only way that “vigilance” is exercised. A colleague of mine was telling me that his brother dropped his dog off for a day of doggy sitting. My colleague, who was sitting in his garden, heard a curiously whispered exchange between his neighbours. “He had someone in there this morning.”
“Yeah. Now he’s got another dog in there.”
“Do you think we should call the police?”
My colleague didn’t say a word but he could have. “What about all those times you smoked drugs in the garden? Should I call the police?”
I don’t know what my neighbours get up to in their gardens unless I can smell it or hear it. I suspect its sausage and ping pong. While I can’t see the neighbours, and I’m oblivious to the gaze of others as I go about my garden business, that’s not the same as feeling I have privacy. I don’t.
Observation comes in many forms. The Road WhatsApp group has served as a useful reminder of the power of knowing that you are being observed during lockdown.
We are reminded to clap for carers on the WhatsApp group. Those with hedges, come out from behind them. Clapping is not enough. We have to be seen to be clapping. Who gives what to the food bank does the rounds on the WhatsApp group. Giving is not enough. We have to be seen to be giving. The Road WhatsApp group is proving a valuable aid to vigilance and leaves us in no doubt about who is a good neighbour and who is not.
I do not know the faces of the people in the Road WhatsApp group. Some of them have voices I would recognise if they said hello. Yet, I feel observed and after the observation comes judgement. Is this vigilance?
In my small world in which I do not see the people who are exercising vigilance on my behalf, I remind myself, that most people won’t take as much interest in me as I take in myself.
Now that the evenings are getting longer, we are all out in our gardens. The ping pong is in full swing. People are starting to entertain. My own vigilance is paying off. I’m enjoying the soundtrack. Last nights choral impersonation of howling dogs was movingly performed. Should I call the Police?
Image is Siobhain Santry's drawing of two people looking out through the slits in their window blinds.
This is the Blind Truth with Anna Tylor. Anna is the chair of RNIB and in her personal blog she takes a wry look at living a colourful life with limited sight.
This week's episode is titled: 'Blot On The Landscape'.
This is the Blind Truth with Anna Tylor. Anna is the chair of RNIB and in her personal blog she takes a wry look at living a colourful life with limited sight.
This week's episode is titled: 'Etiquette For A New Age'.
This is the Blind Truth with Anna Tylor. Anna is the chair of RNIB and in her personal blog she takes a wry look at living a colourful life with limited sight.
This week's episode is titled: 'Lockdown, Lies and Revelations'.
No one’s going to be leaning over the pub bar any time soon and ordering a pint of Corona. Time, it seems, has been called on all our social lives for the foreseeable future. The help lines have stopped answering. Even Wayne in Mumbai, who regularly calls, offering to fix my infected computer for a small fee and access to my bank account, has stopped ringing. I hope he’s not coughing.
Social contact has a whole new form.
Mine happened on the phone to #Sainsbury. After half an hour on hold, I spoke to a nice woman who asked me if I was vulnerable. I asked her if there was a blinky category. She said there wasn’t and so I had to settle for vulnerable. Once my profile was altered to reflect my new status, I’d be able to get on line shopping. On Monday I filled up my virtual shopping basket and went to the checkout. I’ve been deleted from the vulnerable shopper list and now I can’t get on line shopping at all. There are no delivery slots.
The Right Hand Neighbour text to say she was off to the supermarket and what did I want. I’m past caring what she thinks as we have lived through our children’s’ teenage years together. Even Victorian built houses leave little to the imagination once a teenager is in full throttle. We’ve been privy to all the outbursts and forced apologies. I didn’t think twice as I added the bottle of sherry to the list. The packet of cheese and onion crisps, I concede, has slightly less cache. She left the bill in the bag and I made a bank transfer.
Coronavirus has turned my usual shopping routines into a dependency on the kindness of others. If you don’t look like your actual swivel eyed cartoon character you don’t make the list and you won’t get past the gauleiter at the supermarket. Then there’s the problem of how to follow the tape marking on the floor. Bumping into people these days gives a whole new meaning to getting up people’s noses. I doubt that if my fellow shoppers see me with my face pressed to the label they will offer me their specs and that well worn joke, “forgot your glasses”. They’re more likely to call for my eviction from a public space.
If you can’t see, being stuck at home isn’t all exchanging WhatsApp messages, about risotto rice stocks, with the neighbours. Poverty and isolation are often natural companions of blindness. For those blind people who have no slack in their resources for a bag of crisps or a bottle of sherry, and who can’t make it round the supermarket, life has just got grimmer. Many of them are dependant on local sight loss organisations for food and social contact. A lot of these services have been withdrawn. They’re not considered key workers and blind people aren’t vulnerable in a lockdown.
Many older blind people have no WI-FI so they can’t activate Alexa with a voice command. They have to do it the old fashioned way. One accidental knock of the radio and it can be silence until the next time someone comes round to visit and can do a re-tune. That might not be for months now. Don’t get me going on medicines.
Every time I hear the WhatsApp pinging a post alert I heave a sigh. How much worse it would be to know that the struggle for food was equally matched by a struggle with silence stretching out before me.
The Right Hand Neighbour, turns a blind eye to my vices and I concede that in the new order I don’t shop.
I have been to the moon and back, plumbed in bathrooms and more besides, and all in my sleep. I normally undertake these activities in an orderly fashion in the seconds before I wake up. These days, my adventures have become more numerous because I am no longer a spring chicken and prone to waking up a lot, which involves dreaming a lot.
Just before the light came up and I woke up this morning, I had cause to telephone John. John is an upholsterer I haven’t seen for more than twenty years. He hadn’t changed a bit. After having patiently listened to my plea for a 65cm blue velvet cousin cover and new upholstery on an old button back nursing chair, he asked me if there was anything else I needed. I said that what I was really after was a set of casters and a gun. He seemed a bit surprised. “I thought you were practically blind.”
“I used to shoot an air rifle,” I said. This was an exaggeration. As a child my brother and I had unfettered access to a lead pellet air rifle that we were pretty free with. In the interests of sibling longevity, I gave it up.
“I’m thinking of taking up target shooting,” I explained.
I noticed he was nodding thoughtfully on the other end of a large Bakelite phone with a long curly cord, before agreeing to supply several meters of upholstery fabric, casters and, of course, a gun.
Having put in my order, I woke up and drank a pot of tea. Then I went on line and to my joy, I have discovered that there is an aspiration to make acoustic shooting for blind people a Paralympic sport. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=apzctZml7Js.
The public went wild for the 2012 Paralympics. If the question is disability the answer is sport. “Gone blind. Never mind. You could become a Paralympian.”
It might be a bit late in the day, but I could conceivably be on track to be a gun shooting Olympian, assuming my hearing holds up until then. If that fails I can always turn myself into a geriatric #Violet-Elizabeth Bott and “thcream and thcream, at the injustice of it, till I’m sick”. Imagine that as an Olympic sport.
I am not an Olympian. I have never been in the park, let alone on the track or on the plinth. I did come third in an egg and spoon relay race in 1974, though the fact of my performance is lost to history. It might never have happened. No shield was ever engraved or presented. I’ve made my peace with that.
Elite sports are not for everyone. It’s enough to compete for a seat on the bus if you are unsure where the seat is, and you are doing it blind because it’s rush hour, and a tremendous hush has descended on the #159. Come to think of it, navigating your way to work blind would be an excellent competitive sport. It would turn notions of what it is to be an Olympian on its head.
Being gloriously average has its advantages. I’m free to go back to bed for a good snooze and further adventures in upholstery or space travel. If sleep were an Olympian sport I’d be the last person to get picked for my team, On the up side, there is always hope of improvement without having to stand up. No ear guards are required and it’s rich in experiences from driving ice trucks to making bolognese. Being a dreamer has never left me in any doubt that being gloriously average has got its advantages. You might say it’s something to aspire to.
The oven packed up. Why does this always happen when you have chopped up enough vegetables to sustain an anaerobic digester for a week? That’s what happened. At the point of realisation, I switched the top oven on, but that didn’t work either. Vegetables cooked in the microwave. I said to the assembled hungry hordes known as Angela, “I’ll just dish up over the bin.”
The Flatmate had no trouble getting the oven to work. She turned the knob. The oven got hot. I turned the knob. Nothing. I went on-line, found a cooker repair man, bit the bullet and booked a call out for “an intermittent fault.” I never liked that cooker. It’s like an unreliable boyfriend who swears he’s hot but isn’t. I’m eight years into the relationship now so I’m what you might call “invested”.
Enter Vic. That’s not his real name. I’m sparing all our blushes.
“It’s working fine,” he said. “getting hotter by the minute.”
“Then why won’t it work for me?” I whined.
“Show me what you’re doing?”
I turned the cooker knob, explaining that my system was fool proof because I had stuck raised dots on all the dials, on the settings I use, because I can’t see the symbols.
“That’s the plate warmer setting,” he said.
“It can’t be, ” I protested.
“And that one’s off,” he said, pointing at the top oven.
He pressed his nose against the cooker in an act of forensic inspection. “Ah. I see what’s happened. I can see where the stickers used to be. Looks to me as if they’ve got knocked off and someone has stuck them back in the wrong place.”
“The Cleaning Genie,” I thought. I bet that’s what happened. I bared my teeth.
“Soooo,” Vic said as he scratched the back of his neck, “What’s up with your eyes then?”
“It’s just the way I’m made,” I said. “No big deal.”
“I’ve got floaters” he blurted out.
“What do you mean when you say ‘floaters’?”
He got out a piece of paper and started drawing wiggly lines that move across his field of vision. “Then there are the wobbly bits,” he said, and then there are the black holes. “I can’t see nothing in the black holes.”
Have you seen an ophthalmologist?” I asked.
“I’ve been to #Vision Express.”
“What did they say?”
“Nothing.” He shrugged his shoulders.
“You should probably go and get that checked out,” I ventured. Then we had a chat about the difference between an optician and an ophthalmologist. After that I stuck my foot in it. “None of us are getting any younger,” I said. “Things can go wrong as we get older.”
“How old do you think I am?”
“Forties,” I said conservatively.
“I’m thirty-seven. You’re frightening me.” Ooops.
“Go and get it checked out and put your mind at rest.”
“I’m not bad looking.”
“You could go today.” He didn’t look happy.
“That’ll be £65,” he said. “Cash.”
I had to scrabble about to break a £10 note. He wasn’t settling for sixty.
“Have you got my phone number in case you need a repair doing in the future.”
I started to enter the number on my phone. “Oh give it here. I’ll do it. You on Facebook?’
Before I had a chance to answer, he handed me the phone. “There you go. We’re friends on Facebook now and I’ve liked myself.” I don’t know how to operate the oven let alone Facebook.
The Cleaning Genie is history. She left white vinegar spray on the sofa last week. I sat on it. Watching TV is like being in a chip shop. She might want to think about an eye test too.
A good part of my life is spent on matters to do with #Fund Raising. It’s a tough old game so I’m sympathetic to anyone faced with the challenge and especially if it’s something I’d like to support.
I confess I’m not a fan of the fund raising event. I know that people like to feel they have got something for their donation but it often seems to me, that like the village fete, it’s a fate worse than death.
My inclination is to offer up the price of the ticket and not to bother going. I’m easily persuaded, a follower, and that’s how I found myself sitting in a community centre on an impossibly uncomfortable chair at a fund raising wine tasting. What I had not braced myself for was the organisers’ drive to encourage mingling. I ended up sitting at a table of people I’d never met before, exchanging pleasantries about people I didn’t know and never expected to know.
No one had said anything about the various other activities beyond swallowing wine. If they had told me there was a quiz I should have ensured I’d fallen into a pot hole in the car park. I was definitely in trouble.
Without the advantage of being able to read the quiz questions, which in itself was an irritation and a blessing in equal measure, I became a spectator:
“What is Iron Maiden?” quizzed our self appointed team captain.
“A pop group,” chirped his wife.
“I believe they are what’s known as a rock band,” said player number three.
“I think you’ll find that’s hard rock,” said the woman next to me as she ticked me off for eating the nibbles.
“It’s what’s known as hefty metal,” concluded the last of our team. That’s the hand we played and lost.
Would now be a good moment to ask my fellow players if they knew the answer to something that had been bothering me. “Who are the Beatles?”
Next came the caption competition. An impossibly small sheet of photos was handed out. No one even bothered to tell me what the photos were of. I ploughed on hoovering up the chorizo. “Don’t eat the nibbles.” I was rebuked again. “they are there to clean your palate between tastings later on. They are an amuse-bouche.”
I doubted this. My mouth was not amused but inhaling sausage and lumps of cheese afforded me something to do to while away the evening.
Three local politicians had generously offered to be the panel in a round of “#Would I lie to you?” I should have thought the answer to this was obvious. Sadly, I called it wrong. My judgement was under serious threat now.
Wine is something I know a thing or two about. Three whites and three reds were rolled out, and to my horror, they had to be matched against the impossibly flowery descriptions on an extended crib sheet of descriptors. I plumped for descriptor number eight every time. I can’t remember exactly what description number eight had to say but the words “sharp” and “petrol” were definitely there. To my shame I called that wrong six times.
If the entire evening had been compressed into an hour it would have been excruciatingly funny. Four hours was just excruciating and as we made our way out into a pitch black car park, I could rejoice. Finally, a level playing field. None of us could see a damned thing.
This was the moment to assert my superior path finding skills. It wasn’t that I have the nose of a bloodhound. The chorizo had seen to that. I was just desperate to get home and open a bottle of “fruity” wine.
Children’s literature is the best. When The Son was growing up, I loved reading to him. I do a pretty passable #Eeyore. Some have even commended me on my #Piglet. That’s another story involving prunes and Bombay mix, the ultimate delicacy.
One of the joys of reading to very small children is the large print that books for small children tend to come with. They allow plenty of scope for “ooing” and “ahhing”, pointing out tigers and fitting in the odd squeeze of the listener on your lap. What’s not to like?
The Son has fond memories of reading together. He remembers sitting in our kitchen being read the first chapter of #Black Beauty. He cried. I cried. Even #Mr Ferret, (not an unaccounted for character but the builder fixing the Kitchen window) cried. The Son has been reading to The Grand since he could stay awake long enough and he’s been thinking about how I can read to him as well.
There’s no avoiding it. Things aren’t what they used to be. My large print copy of #The Just So Stories doesn’t look like much of a large print version these day. I think I’ve gone from large to giant font. No one has said so, but I know it and the Son knows it. He’s been thinking about how to find a way to make it possible for me to sit The Grand on my lap, read him a book and have a squeeze.
After a not inconsiderable amount of public library research, all the indicators point to #West Norwood Library having the best selection of early years reading.
As we walked toward the train, I pushed the pram and blew raspberries, The Grand kicked and whooped, The Son said, “You’re not offended are you?”
“About the giant size font?”
“I wasn’t sure.”
“Of course I’m not offended.” I should have said that I thought it showed considerable forethought on his part. If I am going to be able to read to The Grand, we are going to have to find new ways. The old ones won’t work.
At the desk The Son said, “I hear you have a good sized selection of large print baby books.”
“I wouldn’t say that,” the Librarian said. “I can show you what we’ve got.”
On a solitary shelf sat a slender pile of large print baby books. The best stash in town totalled nine titles in all, and one of those was about a marital bust up.
The Son, The Grand and I sat on the floor and I read him a book about an unreasonably competitive dog who went head to head with his friends the ladybird, the mole and the duck. He lost, but in a moment of consolation his friends pointed out how much better he was at growing hair out of his ears than any of them were. I have quite a bit of sympathy for that dog. I’ve been in that position. The Grand lost interest and reverse crawled into a slightly bigger baby sitting behind him. We decided to cut our losses.
I’ve just done a Google search for large print baby books. The breaking news is that “F is for fart” is a small print book imposter. “The Hug” came out a close second. “Sweet Peas and Dahlias” (a book full of twisty stories about love) is probably going to do it for me. I like the look of the dog on the front cover. He doesn’t have unusually hairy ears and may be amenable to making a friendship with a small boy. That might save The Grand from having to reverse out of my clutches in search of distractions.
“I guess that not being able to see makes dating a whole lot easier,” a one-time only dinner date suggested. “I mean. It wouldn’t matter to you what people look like. You could be with a really ugly ** and you wouldn’t care.”
I know beauty when I see it even if it’s not all about looks. I might just work my way into a conversation with an attractive man if one gets close enough to judge. True, it might be a very short-lived conversation because it all fades to nothing in the absence of a brain.
This disconnect between what I think, and what others think I think, has offered up some comically tragic dates. What do my friends think of me? Why do they assure me that so and so is just perfect when they are obviously not?
“My ex-wife is a beach,” said a heavily accented man from Botswana who sold discount utilities for a living and wasn’t afraid to ask for leads… “it was terrible. I had to get away so I went to the bitch every weekend.” I was open mouthed.
“I was at the bitch when I decided to give it all up and come to England.” He sighed in longing, presumably not for the beach. “Do you have any idea of how much it costs to park a car, long stay, in Botswana?”
I did not.
“Oh do come out for dinner,” insisted the man who had been sitting on the other side of the table during supper the previous night. I had neither spoken to him or had the faintest idea what he looked like. I took advice.
“He’s nice,” said our hostess. “His Father was a vicar.”
“A drink?” I countered.
Halfway into the second glass of paint stripper he said. “Oh do come back to mine for a fish supper.”
“That’s kind, but I need to be elsewhere by nine.”
“Do you want to be my girlfriend or what?” he hissed.
“Or what,” I said.
My friend, Sceptic Tank rang to inform me about a date I would be going on that was not open for discussion. “He’s a really really young sixty-five” she said. “He’s really really nice looking and has a super cool apartment. He’s a really really nice man.”
I had a sneaking suspicion that he may really really be playing in a different game.
The really really nice man immediately called for a quick interrogation and a resume of no more than five hundred words that he would appreciate before Tuesday. I obliged.
“Let’s have dinner.” He was very enthusiastic.
“A drink would be better as I have to be somewhere else by nine.” I said, planning ahead.
We struggled for conversation. He asked me why my last relationship failed. Poor manners was what I wanted to say. I asked him about his likes and how he spent his time. He said that being retired could be lonely. I was sympathetic. We started to talk about antidotes to loneliness. He goes to a lot of talks and I was moved. Then he said, “Yesterday I went to a very good talk on IBS followed by a finger food lunch.” I don’t know why this was funny, but it was. He was moved, but not in the same way as me.
On queue the phone rang.
“Well how did it go?”
“Not well,” I said. Sceptic Tank seemed taken aback. “That’s the last time I take instructions on dating from a woman who can see less than me.”
“Yeah…He called me…He really really liked you, but, well, he thinks you are just too independent.”
That really really takes the * biscuit.
For more on this, follow the link and start reading.
Real Life Blind Dating – Vision Foundation
What could be nicer than to live it up with a couple of friends, eat canapés (not part of my five a day), drink an immodest glass of wine, then work it all off with a stroll home along the river?
“I’ll be back in time for Newsnight,” I texted.
Instructing Wanda (that’s setting a google map route) should never be attempted at a stride. A cursory glance for oncoming obstacles is still a skill I think I have. I don’t. A collision with a lamp post focused my concentration.
It was all going so well until I hit the south side of Vauxhall Bridge. I knew exactly where I was because Wanda told me so, and then she didn’t. “That’s the MI5 building for you,” the Flatmate said. “It plays havoc with your google.”
Turning right into the Wandsworth Road, I began to wonder. “In ten meters turn right” So I did. Tesco never used to be there. I was properly lost but took the opportunity to buy a pint of milk. “In fifty meters turn right.” I did as Wanda commanded.
I could have asked for help, but so certain was I that I could retrieve the situation I ignored the blindingly obvious google melt down and pressed on. “Turn right” google barked. I couldn’t work out where I was. Darkness meant my normal limited field of reference was now reduced to arms length. I had no reference point to anchor my position. I walked into a wire fence. Wanda was having a hissy fit.
In retracing my steps, I was guided by how long I thought it had taken me since I last turned right. A man on a bicycle started circling. “Hey, Where are you going? Come back and talk to me.” I was not in the mood to risk it.
“Turn left,” my Wanda crackled, neglecting to mention anything about the possible pond or flooded fox hole that suddenly revealed itself. Then, a voice from nowhere said, “Hello “Madam. What are you doing here?”
Could those be guns I thought.
“Gentlemen,” I said, buying myself time to work if I was in trouble. Armed Police I guessed. “Am I glad to see you.” I’m lost. Google has let me down and I can’t work it out because “I is blind”.” I waved my cane about a bit as proof, then fleetingly considered the wisdom of this move, remembering that cane users have been tasered for less.
“See over there,” the short one said.
“No,” I said.
“Look over there.”
“When I said I can’t see, I really meant it. I can’t see where I am going.”
“Over there,” he persisted.
“I expect I’ll work it out.” I sighed. “I’m unnerved. I’ve just had an exchange with a man on a bike.”
“Well. If you’re wandering about on your own at this time of night, I suppose you have to expect that kind of thing.”
“I’m off kilter,” I burbled.
“Well no harm done. I should get home if I were you.”
A fat lot of use the Police turned out to be.
Storm Brendon, council Christmas tree disposal policy and a long walk home don’t appear to have much in common. Put them all together and you can live through your own Spaghetti western.
It’s not that the good citizens of Clapham are having a hairy panic seeing Clint Eastwood emerge through the tumbleweed blowing down the High Street. The good, the bad and the ugly of South London have all run home and locked the doors as the wind gets up, the rain comes down and hundreds of Christmas trees get going. It’s just me and the trees blowing about in the dark.
You’d think that by the middle of January all those abandoned Christmas trees would have made it to wood chip. They’ve been hanging about waiting for kerb side collection for weeks now. Fed up with waiting they’ve broken free under cover of a dark and stormy night. They’re roaming about South London like tumbleweed. The challenge for me is that they are invisible in the dark. That’s why I’m taking a position on abandoned trees.
Position one is involuntary: I do not spy a tree and think how wonderful it would be to take a moment to climb up into the branches of that tree and rest, recumbent, pre-Raphaelite inspired. A large tree, that some poor person has had to drag home with them, is now blowing about in the street, waiting for the moment when it and I become connected. As introductions go, it is “prickly” and “in your face”. Our acquaintance is short lived and after a brisk exchange, the free roaming Christmas tree blows away down the road. It all happened so fast. I couldn’t give a description.
Position two is also involuntary. I’m not a tree hugger. They’re not my type. I’m not seeking out a prickly embrace, but a prickly embrace is what I get. A large, full bodied tree, gets me square on. I was looking out for it, but didn’t see it, and now I had my arms around it. Then the tree blew on and I was left fighting with thin air.
Position three is the very position I want to avoid. I am brought to my knees by a free roaming Christmas tree. It does not have the brawn of tree number two. Properly secured in a nylon net, it is the kind of tree you could probably carry home, under an arm, on the bus. What it lacks in bulk, it more than makes up for in agility. It knocks me off my feet. You could say that tree was a mugger of a tree. I put up a strong defence and after a few choice words pick myself up and slope off.
Normal defences are useless. The long cane is not designed for the navigation of tumbleweed Christmas trees. There is nothing for it but to keep going and take it slow, listening out for any front doors that might open and anyone taking a chance to jettison any late abandoned Christmas trees misiles coming my way. It wasn’t quick. It wasn’t pretty, but I made it home.
Position Four is this: It’s fourteen days since the twelve days of Christmas. Trees are still bobbing about in the street. I’ve got the needle about it. I don’t mean to be scratchy but it’s a hazard too far for this “blinky”. I’ve got the scars to prove it. I’m not interested in being bowled over by a tree. Where’s Clint Eastwood when you need him?
It’s coming back to me now. He went into politics and became the Mayor of Carmel. He’s probably been busy, cleaning up Christmas trees.
The Old Bag rang me up to say that she and her slobbering side kick were in festive mood and would I like a drink? I said I would and that she should come round to my house for a mince pie and a real fire. She left the slobbering side kick at home, which upset me. I left the cork in the bottle and gave her a cup of tea. She drank it anyway.
“My dear girl, I have read your last blog post. I have to take issue with you. I think a candle is a wonderful thing. If it smells of something floral even better.”
I explained that I was not ready to retract my views on the eye piercing pain of the candle, even those gifted or re-gifted with love.
“I’d be delighted if someone gave me a really nice candle.”
“Would you?” I wondered in all innocence.
“I really would,” She said.
I let the silence linger for a moment.
“I’ve got a drawer full of them,” I said.
“I know,” she sighed.
The slobbering side kick would have just got on with the begging at this point. “Would you like a candle?” I asked with a throw away flick of the wrist.
“That would be lovely, if you feel you could spare one.”
I could, and I did. I wonder who the lucky recipient was. Not anyone with cataracts I hope. I should not want the Old Bag to have a waxy looking stain on her generosity.
Having drawn a line under the ocular discomfort of candles, with what I will admit is an uncharacteristic outburst of rudeness, I have opened an unforeseen new theme for re-gifting.
It’s no secret that I am a lover of the Dachshund. Having lived half a life without one, I have been thinking about getting one of my very own. In fact, I am beginning to hanker. Is it, I wonder, compatible with increasing use of the cane? Opinion is divided. Those that trust in my abilities are for it. Those that have baser concerns do not. “But how will you know if it’s done a poo? That’s so unfair on other people. It would be extremely selfish of you.” “You will trip over it.” “You might crush it.” ” It’s better if you get a guide dog?”
The dachshund conundrum is ongoing and has opened up a gifting theme that has run through a large selection of cushion covers with dachshunds on them, dachshund broaches, dachshunds to hang on the Christmas tree, dachshund shaped biscuit cutters, Dachshund mugs, and, this Christmas, multiples of the dachshund draft excluder. I suspect that all of this is born of well laid plans, to dampen my desire for the real thing. It has failed.
The logic is flawed: No dachshund in its right might would immobilise itself in a draft, in a doorway, a place through which people pass, often distracted, with cups of tea in hand. It would not lie there waiting to be “tripped” over. The dachshund would be sitting on the sofa, having rearranged the cousins for its own comfort. Should it be met with my looming posterior, hound instincts would take over and I would be immediately rebuked and told to find another seat. The opportunity for “crushing” would be seen off.
Even the very best of faux dachshunds can’t offer the beauty of a really fine dachshund overbite and attitude. So much for the observational powers of those who claim their vision is unimpaired. It’s the real thing for me.
In more good news, concerned citizens will be free to pick up the poo I may not spot.
Forget the heralding of Christmas with the purchase of industrial quantities of Brussel Sprouts. Better to trumpet the festivities with the Jerusalem artichoke. It achieves the same result but for less.
Fighting my way through Christmas madness, I find myself shuffling against the tide of shoppers who are straining under the weight of last minute purchases. I’m on a mission to snaffle the last artichokes before anyone else gets there.
The crowds don’t exactly look as if they are bristling with seasonal joy and there is a lot of high pitched screaming and the odd tantrum going on. A few people have thought to add their Yorkshire terriers into the mix, supported in the chaos by guess what? The extendable dog lead of course.
I am just beginning to wonder at the wisdom of artichokes when a brass band strikes up. They are playing “Joy to the World.” This is the final straw and people start pulling down their hats and covering their ears. Just when I was beginning to think that terriers and their invisible extendable leads were an ask to far, there is relief. The terriers start howling, providing a pretty good indicator of exactly where they are hiding behind the expanse of shopping bags.
This kind of busyness is impossible to make sense of to me. I start humming along with the band in an effort to offer myself a moment of uplift and relief from visual catastrophe. I never thought that a brass band could save the day, but me and the Yorkshire terriers are as one.
When it comes to Christmas shopping I’m for the safe option although I have just taken a chance and bought the flatmate an adult colouring book for Christmas. I wish others would take this approach. That’s the safe option not the chance.
Despite all early warnings, to the contrary, last year I still got a selection of candles. It has made no impact on anyone. I’ve had two more candles so far this year to my certain knowledge. I haven’t even put the presents under the tree yet. I’ve tried the nice way to say this so here comes the sting – again. A candle has all the charms of an ocular migraine to anyone with cataracts. The next person who hands over a candle shaped gift will not be thanked. I shan’t even manage a smile. I’m going to offer up a flash of contempt and say, “How lovely, a present. I’ll just go and open that over the bin.”
Last year I got a book from someone I’ve known for fifty-five years. I like to think this was not a casual unkindness but a bit of karma coming back to my door. She was probably recycling unwanted presents and got desperate. I’ve done it myself, with candles.
The person who bought me a coffee machine, even though they know I don’t drink coffee, may want to consider their position as my relative or they may find themselves in receipt of a selection of delightfully scented candles, designed to induce a calming affect – when lit.
On the subject of magnification, I’ve had a major clear out this year. There is not a single magnifier left in the house, except the one that comes as an app. Don’t attempt to fill the void.
The Grand has sprouted his first tooth this week and all he wants for Christmas is the other one. He’s going to start solids on Christmas day, with a sprout and a bit of porridge. Safe to say that the weather out there may be frightful, but in here it’s just delightful if a little on the windy side.
“Get a job with a pension” was the plea of Alan Pickering’s’ parents. He did. He became a pensions guru. Someone has to do it and there is no reason why a man without sight but with plenty of vision couldn’t do the job. He did so well at it he got a gong. This is what he said about how he got there.https://www.pensionsage.com/pa/Guest-comment-Vision-without-sight.php
Not everyone gets the benefit of support as they make that transition from school to the world of work. #Shappi Kharsandi, tells the story about how, with looming poor grades at A ‘Level, her school thought she wasn’t university material, but she had such a bubbly and outgoing personality. They recommended she become a holiday rep. She wondered, if she had been at a half way decent fee paying school, how that conversation might have run: “We think that while you might not be university material you’ve got such a bubbly and outgoing personality, we recommend you become Foreign Secretary.”
There’s something in this. Expectation is everything. It can enable you to grow into the person you think might want to become. If people don’t have much of an expectation what is to become of you?
In my final year of school, I was summoned to my housemaster’s sitting room for a careers discussion. When I got there, he was sitting in an arm chair, smoking a cigar, glass of whisky on the table, reading #Playboy. “Sir,” I protested. “You’re reading a porn mag.”
“She reads Homes and Gardens,” he said in his own defense, giving a cursory nod in the direction of his wife who was, curled up on the sofa, absorbed in the world of interior designs.
A silence hung between us until he put his “reading” matter down. I waited. “Well, I don’t have any advice to offer.” Then he went on to offer his equivalent of “you might not be university material but you’ve got a bubbly personality.”
“Being a blind bat and as gobby as you are, we had just better hope that you can find yourself a very old rich husband to marry. With luck, he’ll die and leave you all his money, but not if you’re too gobby.”
The Careers Counsellor had a more considered approach. He asked me what I had in mind. I explained that I was thinking of a career in the arts or the law. It was the seventies. A lot of episodes of #Crown Court had shaped my view of my potential to put a better argument and a better performance. If the law wouldn’t have me, maybe I could act and just pretend.
“How much do you weigh?’ he asked.
“No idea,” I answered.
“You’re quite a hefty girl and not a lot of sight I note, I’d recommend you consider basket weaving.”
As recommendations go, being bubbly and a potential holiday rep, or even Foreign Secretary, would be a considerable step up from being a basket case. I mean this in the nicest way imaginable to weavers, but this was not what I had in mind.
I wondered what was wrong with these people? What was it about them that meant they had no vision? Why could they not see the life of adventure that I could see for myself?
It was listening to #Shappi Khardandi that bought it all back: The #Playboy magazine, the smoking teacher drinking whisky in the afternoon, careers advice that was not careers advice at all. It was the seventies. Shappi was feeling rather smug about how it turned out. I know what she means. I’m more likely to annoy than make people laugh as much. Oh heck, I’m feeling pretty smug about it too.
The drama of elections is not all it’s cracked up to be. It’s largely tedium and data entry. I’m sure about this. I’ve been out canvassing over two elections. I’m even in a WhatsApp group of canvassers. I can’t claim a high level of commitment. It’s all proving a bit tricky.
“We’re looking for people to lead.”
“I can do that,” I said.
“It’s tricky with you because you can’t see the computers. We need to take advice from the university about your access needs.”
“Why don’t you just ask me. These things are usually pretty simple.”
She didn’t say this but she might have meant to: “This nice young person who doesn’t know what he’s doing, will forget to call you in the morning. If you give him your number, he’ll lose it.”
So it came to pass that I was repeatedly phoned by the candidate’s team to ask if I would volunteer, and how I repeatedly said I’d like to. I wrote to the party leaders office to ask if there was anything I could do to help in respect a bit of a disability bump in the road. The leader promised to reply within three weeks. That was their final word on the matter.
I booked a bit of refresher canvassing training. I went. It was cancelled but a nice woman talked me through it. Then the canvassing was cancelled. Then I volunteered to do the canvassing that replaced the cancelled canvassing. That turned out not to exist.
On a chilly Friday afternoon, I got a lift to the rendez vous. “This is Anna,” said team leader. We all shook hands. “Sadly, Anna can’t see very much. She’s partially sighted.” I wish I was. “Unfortunately she’s always had this problem but she’s making the best of it and she’s volunteered. Anna and I have canvassed together before and I did the data entry and she did the talking. Isn’t that right Anna?”
It’s not how I remember it but I can go with that.
“Perhaps it would be helpful if I were to speak for myself.” I couldn’t help myself.
“The app doesn’t work with enlarged text. I can’t make it work with voice over. It might be the app that’s the problem. No one knows how to make it accessible. If someone can do my data entry shall we just carry on?”
I’m relieved to be with someone who knows what they’re doing. Top “go away” line of the afternoon goes to the teenager who when asked if his parents were in replied,
“They’re busy. They’re on the toilet.”
As the light began to fade I’m finding my stride. “Are you Mr Voter registered to this address?”
My companion is tugging at my sleeve. I plough on. We have a chat about the merits of voting for my Candidate. Mr Voter says. “I probably will vote for them. I’m not trying to get rid of you but….” I’m braced to take the insult on the chin. “I need a shower.”
“Completely understand says my more experienced companion,” and legs it. I follow at a sedate pace. It’s twilight and there might be traps in them there steps.
“Did you see that?”
“What?” I ask.
“He was not exactly in a state of decency. He was in his dressing gown. Nothing left to the imagination.”
I never noticed which must have been a little disconcerting for Mr Voter.
“Politics is never best discussed in a state of undress on a cold day”, my fellow canvasser observed,
Yesterday, I was out with Aussie Dave. We got shouted at. “never mind,” I said, putting my arm around his shoulder. “I can see the pub from here.”
Anyone who’s been lucky enough to receive the Freedom of the City of London is, to a Freeman or Free Sister, asked if that means they are going to drive their sheep over London Bridge. This ancient medieval right was long abandoned but has made a cunning reappearance in recent years.
Alan Titchmarsh has done it. It’s annoying because he pops up doing just about everything that I might have fancied doing, (except the gardening – that’s me not him). Sheep driving is a charitable event these days and that’s how Alan got the gig. No better photo opportunity than Alan in a three piece herding thirty sheep over the bridge.
The Clerk to the Court of the City of London warned me that Freeman and Free Sisters who whose sheep wander down Borough High Street without prior arrangement, may find themselves subject to the long arm of the law. I’m not a Free Radical, and since I know for certain that they don’t serve loose leaf Earl Grey tea in any Metropolitan Police custody suite, I’m reluctant to take the risk and surrender my freedom to drink the tea of my choice.
However strong my desire to become a sheep herder, I’ll have to wait for a charitable opportunity. Since my cause is #Vision Foundation, I doubt that anyone will be fighting for me to lead the charge let alone bring up the rear of a flock of sheep. There is not a lot of call for sheep herders who may not be able to tell an ewe from a mini metro, let alone a ram. I fear I have missed the little Bo Peep boat.
Only my imagination can propel me over that bridge. In it, I’m looking more like Alison Steadman’s portrayal of Mrs. Bennet than Tess of the D’Urbervilles, which would have been my preference. Come to think of it, had Tess survived the tragedies of her love life, she might have ended up looking like Mrs. Bennet.
I shouldn’t want to be seen as a bleater, and setting aside the limitations of my imagination for a moment, a good cause could yet prove the opportunity I’ve been waiting for. I might have to take it, not in crinoline or cheesecloth, which does rather dash the swirl of romanticism I have about all those sheep. I’d have to opt for #gortex, a sensible pair of shoes and a tweed hat. I may be entering Brenda Blethyn territory now.
Should anything go wrong, should one of those sheep push another of those sheep off the bridge and into the murky depths of the Thames, I will be well placed to get to the bottom of it. Not the river itself. I’m not planning on jumping in after the stricken mutton. No. like Brenda’s portrayal of DCI Vera Cleves, I will not be making an actual leap, but a leap of faith, in order to solve the riddle of the lost sheep.
Sheep herding may not have quite the level of romanticism others look for in a day out, but I might start a bucket list. Considering the amount of nerves that any sheep imported for a trot over London bridge may feel, I’d need a bucket. I’ll add a shovel while I’m at it. That will be something for my charitable support team to do as they clear the path ahead of me, less sheep nerves get the better of me and I’m involved in a fatal accident.
In a late night dash for home, it occurred to me that there was no milk in the fridge and so a short detour was called for. A pint of milk for the necessity of morning tea would surely be possible, and it was.
At the till, while I waited for someone to take my money, I thought I’d use the time productively and started fumbling in my bag for the trusty monocular. I was just putting it round my neck when the cashier pitched up.
“Are you going bird watching?” he asked, pointing at the monocular.
“Oh, no, buses,” I mumbled.
“Because I don’t know if you’ve noticed but it’s dark outside. You wont’ see any birds at this time of night.”
“I’m not a twitcher.” I thought that would knock this conversation on the head.
“A bird watcher then. There are no birds now. It’s dark outside. That’s what I’m saying.”
“No. I’m definitely not a bird watcher. If I was looking for birds I’d probably have binoculars. That’s like this only two stuck together, one for each eye. This is what I use to see if there is a bus coming down the road because I can’t see very well.”
“Nah,” he said incredulously. “buses are huge. You don’t need binoculars to see a bus.”
I ploughed on in the spirit of my chum the Septic Tank. I would adopt her approach and see this as an opportunity to explain sight loss to the world, one cashier at a time. ” I can’t see very much, at all,” I said. “In fact I can’t even see a bus coming up the road, so I use this to spot buses coming and when they get close enough I can use it to read the bus numbers.”
The cashier puffed out his cheeks and exhaled through pursed lips. “Cash or card?”
I slapped my card down on the reader and waited for the bleep.
“it’s dark outside. You aren’t gonna see any birds in the dark.”
“I’m not a bird watcher.” I might have been a bit strident at this point. “I’m looking for a bus.”
“Well, you’re not gonna see too many of them round here at this time of night.”
“I travel hopefully,” I said.
After a short pause he lent forward and asked, “have you got a problem with your eyes then if you can’t see a bus coming down the road?”
“Yes. I have a problem with my eyes.”
“Because you look like a bird watcher…..”
“it’s definitely an eye thing not a bird thing.” I might have exceeded strident at this point.
“…In that hat,” he finished.
Taking a moment out from putting my purse back in my bag, I patted myself on the head for a reason I can’t explain.
A silence hung between the cashier and me, which he felt obliged to fill. “Yep. I would say you look exactly like the kind of person that would be a bird watcher. You’ve got a bird watching face.” he said opening his arms wide and smiling.
Was he being funny? Had I just revealed myself as an old bird without humour? Or was it that he just blurted out the first thing that came into his head? Either way, telling someone that they have a bird watching face is not much of a get out clause. I was prepared to let it go, and left.
On the street I checked Google to see when my bus was due. He was right about something. You don’t see too many buses about at this time of night. I put my monocular away, pulled my hat down low and plodded off home.
I love a party. I love an elegant pair of shoes, but not enough to wear them for longer than I have to. Having a back up pair of trainers under a table is a good idea. It’s not the end of the world if it’s a good party and someone starts to clear the room before you are ready to leave and they shout out, “Anyone want to claim these trainers?”
I’m unbashful. “They’re mine.”
I love a really good party dress too, but not enough to wear it for longer than I absolutely have to. That’s because a really good party dress is invariably backed up by supportive underwear that you can’t just chuck under a table if it starts to get a little uncomfortable. Imagine that. “Anyone want to claim a pair of #Bridget Jones?” Not me.
With my trainers safely hidden under a table and my impossibly large pants safely hidden under my dress I sallied forth to party. It’s part of the life of a #Chair of Trustees; sturdy attire and enquiring conversation, never forgetting to seize the moment to make a pitch for your cause.
Launching a new brand and a new strategy is an exciting moment in anyone’s life. This was our exciting moment. #Greater London Fund for the Blind was having a rebirth for the twenty-first century. Our big reveal. We are #Vision Foundation. No more talking about the blind, the tables the chairs. Not a sight loss charity for blind people without any vision itself, but one that is forward looking.
Vision Foundation wasn’t a name picked out of thin air. It was arrived at after a good deal of consultation with blind and partially sighted people. The same can be said about our strategy. If you are that way inclined, you can read about what we’ve got planned here. https://www.visionfoundation.org.uk/about-us/our-strategy/
I’ve been to a lot of parties that have turned out to be dreary affairs and left my stomach rumbling from the effects of warm white wine and too much saturated fat on a cocktail stick. Not this time.
The Devonshire Club was unphased by this many blind people gathered together to devour canapés, Prosecco and speeches. There were plenty of all three. But, who were all these blind and partially sighted people standing about chatting and guzzling? People who need their energy topped up. Just as well the service was good.
There was an historian and disability activist. Check out @BlondeHistorian. She’s made a film about how the public interact with the white cane. https://twitter.com/hashtag/WhiteCaneCam?src=hashtag_click There was a former financier who happens to be a national blind tennis champion. There was a Fund Raiser, an Olympian, a Chief Executive, a Service Director, an ex-Trauma Doctor turned Trainer, a Solicitor, a Recruiter, and a Programs Officer who writes a blog https://thisblindhijabican.wordpress.com That’s a pretty rangy group of talent for people who can’t see. I could go on but I won’t. What they all have in common is that they can think, eat, drink and achieve.
Then there was me. I might have disgraced myself. My colleague said, “Cherie Blaire would like to meet you.” This might have been a bit of repositioning of the truth but I’m not one to pass up an opportunity.
“I love your dress,” she said.
“Spanx pants,” I said.
“What?”
“Spanx pants,” I repeated.
Considering what an excellent speech Cherie gave, I could have come up with something better to say. Luckily for me she has probably heard every type of social gaff and has learnt to be forgiving. What she wasn’t forgiving of is the shockingly poor life chances that blind and partially sighted face. This is what she had to say. https://www.standard.co.uk/comment/comment/cherie-blair-finding-work-for-those-with-sight-loss-will-benefit-us-all-a4258481.html
The is what #Vision Foundation is here to change.
The mesh laundry bag is making a come back. It’s a much under valued item that will preserve my clothes from the ferocity of the spin cycle on my elderly washing machine. I hope never to hear again, ” Did you know there’s a hole in that?”
I will never hear myself say again, “Obviously not or I wouldn’t be wearing it.
My first line of defence is a series of raised dots stuck on the front of the washing machine, so I know which cycle is where. I have never worked out the number of revolutions in the various spin options though. The choices are shown on a tiny screen I can’t see so I chose to ignore. I think I might have got my 600s and my 900s muddled up. I suspect the holes in my T-shirts and trailing threads on my pants are a consequence of excess revolutions.
If I’d taken the kind of robust approach in asking for help with the sticky dots and the impenetrably small screen on the washing machine, as I did in #Robert Dyas, in asking for service, I might not have trashed my wardrobe.
Having long since lost my patience in trying to search out items in hardware stores, I hit upon a likely looking helper. She was standing at the till in black, wearing a lanyard and holding a clipboard in her hand. She was talking in hushed tones, to a youth also dressed in black and wearing a lanyard.
“Excuse me,” I said. “I wonder if you could tell me where I would find the kind of laundry bags that go in washing machines.”
“Haven’t got a bloody clue,” was not the answer I was expecting.
“Oh,” I murmured, trying to buy myself a bit of time while I considered my next move.
“I don’t bloody work here.”
“I’m terribly sorry. I got that wrong. The perils of having rubbish sight. My mistake. Sorry.”
Hands on hips she said,” ah ha.” She was probably a really a sweet person having an off day.
If you’re under fire, best not to return that fire.
“Well, you do look like you know what you’re doing.”
Quick as a flash she bit back. “Which is more than you obviously do. ” Then she turned her back.
“Are you able to tell me where they are?” I asked the youth.
“Over there,” he said.
“Bit of a problem. I can’t see that far. Could you show me please?”
He didn’t reply but carried on talking to “having an off day”.
As I started to meander about with my nose pressed to the shelves, getting ready for that well known shopping manoeuvre “the blinky bob”, best loved of anyone who can’t see much, I heard him shout out. “Next to the bath mats.”
Bath mats meant nothing to me. In my quest I took one of everything of the shelf to read the labels and then left them in a pile for someone else to put back. The laundry bag was the last thing I took down. Ooops!
It could have been worse. Imagine if you were in the family planning section at #Boots trying to work out what was what. Imagine a very loud passing stranger trying to “help”. Imagine them shouting out the type of prophylactics on the shelf. Imagine a wide choice to fit every taste. Just in case you still couldn’t make a decision, imagine being urged on with an explanation of the “best before date” and a heartfelt enquiry as to whether or not you expected to use them by then. I can only imagine. Nothing like that has ever happened to me.
The most I have ever grown is a single radish sometime in the seventies. My Dad used to give me runner bean and the odd courgette plant. Sometimes they thrived and sometimes they died. More accurately, I killed them.
I’m feeling pretty smug as I’ve grown much of my lawn from seed this year, although the Right Hand neighbour gently pointed out that the lawn is full of all kinds of things that don’t appear to be grass. They’re green so it all the same to me. I can’t tell.
I planted a crab apple tree and bought a packet of courgette seeds and two packets of runner bean seeds. Everything you ever wanted to know about growing veg is on YouTube. I know because I have spent an indecent amount of time watching it. I could have done with more close up shots because even after careful viewing I have no idea what they looked like. Also, a description of what plants feel like what to touch would be helpful.
It takes seconds to plant a seed and about two weeks for the first green shoots to appear. I thought I had it covered. Beans in the black plastic pots and courgettes in the brown, or was it the other way around? It mattered because of what went where when it came to potting on. I know this because You Tube said so. No doubt time would tell.
When time did not reveal what was a bean and what was a courgette, I potted them on anyway and hoped for the best. All things being equal I was reckoning on a fifty percent success rate. I was not prepared for the triumph of a hundred percent. I know because I can count, but what was a bean and what was a courgette?
Courgettes become scratchy to the touch and make you itch. That’s how I worked out what was what and went where. Time to plant out all six of my courgette plants, all eight dwarf runner beans and all nine runners. All things being equal I was reckoning on a fifty percent success rate. I was unprepared for the triumph of a hundred percent.
Six courgette plants produce a lot of courgettes. The Right Hand neighbour took some but having eaten them was silent on the subject. I’m worried they won’t answer the door if they know it’s me with more courgettes.
The Sister said, “I’ve never seen a courgette like that before.”
The Son said, ‘Why are you bringing us all this stuff you don’t want? We don’t want it either.”
I’ve been giving courgettes and runner beans away and eating them twice a day every day for nearly two months now. There are dozens still on the plants and as many again in the fridge.
The Cleaning Genie turned up on Monday and said,” Why are you not eating your beans?”
“What beans?” I asked.
“The ones hanging off that plant.” She marched over and picked a bunch of outsized beans.
“They’ve gone to seed,” she said. Despite copious finger combing through all bean plants I had missed them.
The cleaning Genie told me how to dry parsley in the microwave before she left. Luckily I remembered how to put out the ensuing fire from the last time it happened.
The Sister says the crab apple tree has fungus. Only a few weeks of courgettes to go. I spend a lot of time running my fingers through my runner beans. Next year I’m positioning the canes further apart so I can get my head inside. I’m not risking them going to seed. I’m picking them young.
Gardening blind has been a constant surprise.
A.A. Milne might have sat down half way down the stairs, but he never did it because he couldn’t wait another second to see what had popped up on his mobile phone. I have noticed that the folk who have adopted this practice are neither in #London Underground or in the town. They are not at the bottom. They are not in the top. They are standing half way up the exit staircase. They are right in the way.
To the desperate, who cannot help but stop on their way out of a #tube station to check their phones, I can only assume that like the poem, “All sorts of funny thoughts” run round their heads. Considering the inconvenience, they cause to even the most vigilant commuter let alone those of us whose eyes are dim and cannot see, it had better be more than a message informing them it’s beans for tea.
Heaven forfend that I should discourage anyone from using up the leftovers, but “there is a chicken curry in the fridge with your name on it,” is not a good enough reason to clog up #tube station exits during rush hour. If you are desperately checking your phone for a long awaited message from a love interest, beware of where you stop. Standing half way up or down the stair to read “you’re dumped” may throw you sufficiently off balance to the point that this metaphor becomes a lived experience for the unsuspecting crowds coming up the stairs behind you.
There is a #tube station etiquette, including arriving and leaving. It does not involve stopping on the stairs for no good reason. Reading and sending text messages are not good reasons. They can wait until you are no longer in the #underground but in the town. That’s approximately ten seconds longer.
Anyone who can’t see depends on everyone sticking to the etiquette. That means keep moving once you are on the stairs.
You will know you are at the stairs because at the top and bottom of every set of stairs, in every #tube station, are #tactile floor indicators. They tend to be denoted by horizontal raised markings that you can feel under foot. So if you have your eyes firmly fixed on your telephone because news of chicken curry just won’t wait, this is the clue that you must keep moving up those stairs until you feel more tactile indicators under foot to tell you that you have reached the top. At this point you should not stop. You should not stop until you are on the street.
If you stop half way up the stairs, I might have to wait for you to finish ordering your pilau rice, because if its rush hour I probably can’t let go of the hand rail and move around you. No amount of huffing and tutting will change that.
If the person coming up behind you is completely without sight and carrying a cane in their hand you might get more of a surprise than supper. You might find your chips are delivered with sauce. One blind mans’ efforts to work out what was going on resulted in a nasty swipe, with a cane, between the thighs to someone absorbed, halfway up the stairs, on his phone. Accidents will happen.
Don’t be like Pooh and be a “grumpy old bear’ about this. Follow the advice of #TFL. Keep moving and don’t stop on the stairs. Even those of us who can’t see have urgent business and stomachs to fill.
If you think I’m being chippy, you are probably right. There will be no carbs for me. It’s a calorie controlled offering for tea tonight.
Coming out on to the street, the heat hit me. A day of brainstorming had taken its toll. No matter how good the air conditioning and how sweet the cake, there is nothing like a good blast of hot air after a long day of trying not to disgrace yourself, to make you feel the strain.
Far fetched as it sounds, in thirty degrees of heat, I needed to be in Upper Street before 6.30, to beat the deadline for the winter jumper I had reserved.
Bank Station had come to a standstill and as people piled in behind me, the temperature began to rise in more ways than one. I still had time to make it, but after a torturous wait, I gave up and shuffled my way through the crowds and back into the relative cool of a scorching evening. That jumper would wait for no woman. I needed a taxi. This was a job for the cane.
This was no ordinary jumper. It was just the right shade of green and it’s the quest for colour that lead me to spend the next twenty minutes, standing on the side of the road, cane in one hand, the other arm out to signal my need for a Taxi.
As taxi procuring goes, mine is a fairly rubbish technique. It’s consistently let me down over nearly forty years. It used to be that I’d see a taxi, any taxi, and stick my hand out. These days, I stand with my arm out and hope the taxi sees me. Whether they did or whether they didn’t, or whether they were stuffed with people on the quest to secure the green jumper before 6.30, I shall never know, but my nerves were starting to jangle. Hard to keep your cool in thirty degrees of heat when you feel the jumper of your desires slipping from your grasp.
“Can I help you?” asked a nice woman, then qualified her offer with, “I’m not sure there are any taxis.” I pressed on alone.
Just as I was about to give up Prince Charming was at my elbow. “That is a rubbish technique you’ve got.”
“I know. I’m on a deadline. I think I’ll give up and go home,” I said.
“Don’t do that. I’m going to get you a taxi. Stay there. I’ll be back with a taxi, and I always do what I say I will do.”
“I always do what I say I will do,” is the mantra of just about every man I know. It’s how you know that you won’t see them for dust. Then, just like that, he was gone. Ah well. It wasn’t meant to be.
As I took my first steps to leave, he was back. “I’ve got you a taxi. Hold my hand,” he commanded. At this point I might normally say, “I’ll just follow on,” but I willingly obeyed as we hot footed it across the road. “Take this woman to Upper Street. She’s against the clock.” We did it with five minutes to spare.
Five minutes before closing time is never the optimum moment to present yourself for a fitting. I can’t say I won any favours. The jumper didn’t fit. They locked up and went on a hunt for one that did and hadn’t been reserved. There was one left.
I wonder if Cinderella felt like this? Possibly she did. Whatever the thrill of the chase, and I include Prince Charming in this, I wonder how much I really needed that jumper, now languishing in its wrapping. It will be a lovely surprise when I open it and think how beautiful the colour and fall in love again.
Highways England have written to me as part of a consultation about a proposed Motorway junction improvement scheme. That is to say, the letter began “Dear Resident”, so I don’t imagine they will be crying into their tea when they don’t hear back from me.
Not having a car seems a belief too far for some people. How can anyone live without one?
“I don’t believe you don’t have one,” said the woman sitting next to me.
“I’m a devotee of the bus,” I explained with the usual blah blah qualifier about not being about to blah blah.
Her objections were two fold: the inconvenience of public transport, the inconvenience of the public. I take her point on both counts but all life is on the bus and mine is the richer for it.
Twenty years ago I was sitting on the bus minding my own business when the woman sitting next to me leant over and asked, “are you Anna?” She was the Mother of a long lost school friend. I phoned her. We caught up.
“Actually, I won’t take your number as I’ve got enough friends,” she said as the call ended.
I learnt a valuable lesson. The future is generally best approached without carrying the past on your back.
When the son was young, he’d fall asleep in my arms, sitting on buses. You can’t do that while driving a car.
A couple of weeks ago I did eleven stops, sitting in the middle of a domestic row that was amongst the best I’ve ever witnessed. “You never listen to me,” yelled the woman who was sitting behind me.
“That’s because you’re not worth listening to,” said the man standing at the front of the bus.
“Come and sit next to me. Have I got to tell the whole bus our business? “
“No. You don’t need to say anything.”
There was a long silence until the woman could bare it no more.
“What I really want,” she bellowed in a tone that informed her fellow passengers that something was being unreasonably withheld from her, ” is that colonic irrigation.”
“Be quiet,” said the man.
“You would even begrudge me that.”
One woman’s misery is twenty other people’s side splitting moment.
Recently I sat next to woman, at the bus stop, who was veiled and wearing gloves. Perfectly relaxed, she was knitting. I couldn’t restrain myself. How was it possible to do that? “Practice.” Now we meet at the bus stop from time to time. She always says hello and we’ve started to chat. She’s not a letter box or a bomber but a nice woman I would never have met if it wasn’t for the bus.
I met my neighbour on the bus. We’d been passing each other in the street and never knew the other one was there because neither of us could see the other one blah blah. He sat next to me and a good traffic jam got the conversation flowing. He told me how to get asbestos removed for free, and I told him about local swimming sessions if you can’t see. That saved me nearly a thousand pounds. Who knows, it might have saved him from a kick in the teeth and dentures.
Sometimes I run into my friends on the bus and get a bonus catch up. They have the advantage of never having to bother to speak to me if they don’t want to, because I will never know they are there. If we were circling each other in our cars we’d hoot and wave, that’s all.
The car may be king but long live the emperor of transport, the bus.
The Best Friend and I have just made a pilgrimage to Edinburgh. Our idea of a good time is to spend three days sweating it out in a Scottish dungeon along with a hundred or so other people, all perspiring away in slightly damp pack-a-macs. We have the aroma or damp dogs in search of a good laugh.
If Best Friend were a damp dog, she would definitely opt to be a yellow Labrador. It’s so crowded at the #Edinburgh festival this year. We schlep from venue to venue on our well planned mission for humour; she a pace in front of me, me with my hand on her shoulder, weaving our way through the throngs of other people who have also taken on the aroma of wet dogs just for laughs. “Good dog” I say as she stops to narrate the sights.
Before we are in The Royal Mile looking for Winalot, I hear a voice I recognise. “Is that The Tech?” I put out there.
“Who’s that?” comes the reply from the man next to me. Then he recognises the voice. “OH. Hello,” he says. We stop for a chat and a catch up.
The sights may be wonderful in Edinburgh, but the sounds of the city offer their own delights.
As we make our way up the road I hear a voice say,” God, I thought this was supposed to be edgy. It’s just heavy.”
“Wow! That’s the voice of youth in the midst of an existential crisis.”
“No. That’s the torture of dragging a very large suitcase up a hill.”
This is the reason we only pack what we can carry on our backs, and some of that we plan to throw away. We are the only people I know who save up old clothes, at the end of their wearable life, for our holidays. This was my idea. She says it was hers.
We sit down for a tea and consider our options. A very tall man brandishing leaflets approaches us. “Are you ladies interested in classical music?” he asks.
“I’m sorry. We’re spoken for,” I say.
“He’s not talking to you,” mutters Best Friend under her breath. Too late. I have muscled my way into a conversation I didn’t want to have in the first place.
As we perspire our way through #Ahir Shah’s existential crisis of class, race and culture clash, Best Friend is overcome. She produces a fan from her bag and is occupied with vigorous flapping in an effort to create her own micro climate. She flaps herself into a standstill as she wonders if his existential angst may have inadvertently become my existential angst. Has he bet on a laugh that will be funny to everyone in the room but me?
Is it really alright to make people laugh about the lunacy of racism by setting it against the not so funny anomaly of albinism? Best Friend can breathe easy again. Context is everything. One is amused. Watch the show. I ‘m not going to explain it here.
We make our progression through musical drama, ventriloquy,, #Fern Brady, #Olga Koch, #Mums Great Comfort Food and walk and talk ourselves into a stupor. We didn’t even have a row.
As we pack up to leave, doubt creeps in. We hover, underwear in hand, over the bin, wondering if we should abandon old clothes in a rented room in Edinburgh or take them home again. What has come over us?
Three days hanging about in dunguns has undermine my reasoning. Why can’t I let go? What does it mean? I am having an existential crisis. It’s not about class or race or skin colour. It’s about my pants.
There’s been a great thread on #Twitter about pointless #Braille. Can there be such a thing? Yes, but should the question be; in the digital age is there any point to Braille? Put it another way, is there any point to literacy?
Studies show that if you are blind and a Braille reader, you are more likely to achieve academically and find and keep employment as compared to people who rely solely on voice synthesizers.
Imagine a world in which no one learnt to read and write. How would anyone be able to get from “A” to “B”, read the critical instruction on the back of a packet to “keep out of the reach of children” or text one’s beloved under the table during a “all phones off” meeting of the board?
It’s the same with Braille. Braille delivers literacy in a way which the synthetic voice can never do. It teaches grammar and syntax and all that other good stuff. It’s the note on the back of a packet that means you don’t mistake pain killers for laxatives. Just like learning to read and write, Braille opens a door to independence for anyone who can’t see enough to read the printed word.
These days you can invest in a #digital Braille display, which means you don’t have to lug all those trees around with you, and no one will know when you write a note to self to remind yourself that So and So “is a total moron” because you might have your Braille display discretely perched on the table in front of you, or on your lap. A synthesizer might blurt out your secret.
Braille has to be close at hand for the hands to do the reading, or no one will ever be able to read it, which brings me back to pointless Braille which is not the same thing at all as “the point of Braille”. I think I’ve proved my case on that score.
In an office I know there is a great big Braille sign on the wall. It’s painted on the wall. No one with sight who comes into the office knows what it says so the temptation is to ask a passing blind person. They don’t know either because the dots aren’t raised. I like to think that whoever put it there wrote “beans make you fart”.
If all of those beans get a bit too much, spare a thought for the desperate as they search for the door to the bathroom. Imagine the Braille on the door being too high to reach. Let’s hope the door doesn’t open towards you as you desperately seek a clue to what lurks behind it. Then there’s the Braille sign on a door that read, “do not stand in front of this door. It opens outwards”.
I love the Braille signs hanging off chains from the ceiling, too high to comfortably reach but just the right height to smash your head against. If you have any complaints pick up the laminated card that gives instructions on how to make a complaint. The laminator doesn’t do Braille so it’s BIG dots!
In the pointless Braille stories that turned out not to be pointless at all, my top one is the drive through ATM.
When the Son was a teenager his need for easy money was such that I could barter a trip to the supermarket for one to the cashpoint. He’d drive me to the ATM with Braille keypad fitted as standard and I’d nip out and withdraw the cash. Everyone has to find a way to pay for their children’s driving lesson after all, because even teenage have their uses.
Having spent the better part of my premenopausal life avoiding pregnancy, I have spent the entirety of post menopausal life “egging” the son on to embrace reproduction. My enquiry into his plans for parenthood have not always been met with a ready enthusiasm to discuss the subject with me, his Mother. We developed a ritual exchange on the subject.
“Don’t be selfish. Think of me.”
“Mother, you are the last person I am thinking about.”
News that the DiL was in labour came in a group whatsapp message. Regular updates followed. Then as day one drifted into day two and my nerves began to jangle, I went in search of distraction, and because deep down I am a shallow person, I went shoe shopping.
If you are living through the protracted childbirth of people you have invested a future in, and can’t find anyone who is prepared to be a captive audience to your anxiety and your excitement, and especially if you can’t see much, shopping provides the ideal alternative. It is not an undertaking to be done alone. You will require assistance. This means some lucky retail assistant can be held captive to my, or your, need to talk. The #John Lewis sale, coupled with their legendary customer service, was the perfect outlet. Help in this moment of emergency was at hand.
In the shoe department I bumbled about before spotting a likely candidate and asking, “Excuse me. Do you work here?” Jackpot. Help secured, I was fairly certain I could now drop the bomb. “Actually, my daughter-in-law is having a baby. I don’t know why I have come shoe shopping. What was I thinking? Do you mind if I tell you this?” She could hardly say no.
“How exciting,” she said. Then, not to be thrown off task, “These are nice.”
“Not keen on heels,” I whooped. “She’s been in labour since yesterday.”
“Poor thing. How about blue?”
“Blue’s good. It’s taking a long time.”
She had every blue shoe in a size six in her arms. “Would you like to try these on?”
“I would but what else have you got?” Anything to keep her captive.
“How about pink?”
“Alright. I’m sure they’d phone…”
She led me to a seat and in a neat exchange I agreed to try on pink heels and gold trainers if she would just allow me a bit of commentary on the impending birth. She did and I garbled on about babies.
Those trainers looked terrible, but I wasn’t finished yet with my need to burble about impending Grannydom, so I said I’d need to walk about a bit if she could just come with me. I think I might have started repeating myself, or at least somehow let the mask of serious shopping intent slip a bit. She had reached her limit. Even #John Lewis has to draw the line somewhere.
It’s amazing what a good push can do. Not the kind that brings a baby into this world, but the type that takes you out of your normally sensible flat “blue” shoe comfort zone. Pink suede seemed to be a really good investment. She was quite persuasive.
‘Why not celebrate a new beginning with a new beginning?’
Under normal circumstances I would never have agreed to luminous pink, but I did. I was in no position to fight it.
The flatmate says those shoes are possibly pinker than I may have intended. That’s the price of distraction. I have not told her that there are another two pairs behind the sofa. On the up side, it’s #John Lewis. You can take them back.
The Grandson, henceforth to be known as “the Grand”, is a beautiful shade of baby pink.
As the witching hour broke, I began to roam about the house in the dark, trying not to make a noise less the dog barked, the household awoke and the neighbours cursed me. Then it dawned on me that I was no longer in possession of a phone.
The phone was lying face down in the road and beyond the prospect of a replacement screen. Thus began a week of red faced trips to the #Apple store.
The red face was in part because of my own idiocy in dropping my phone and not noticing, then having to peel its shattered remains out of a plastic bag to give an account of myself. The redder face was the rage of being held in the grip of #Apple power. #Apple does not seem to me, to serve, but to administer its customers. With an annual budget bigger than some national economies, it’s well placed to behave like the Department of Stealth and Total Obscurity. It demands compliance.
After the interminable wait, I recounted the manner of death of my phone. A replacement quote was emailed. The insurance agreed to pay. I phoned the #Apple store to arrange an appointment. The Genius were not answering their phones. No matter, #AppleCare could help. The incomprehensible conversation that followed came to an end because the Genius were still not answering their phone and #AppleCare couldn’t help and didn’t care. Then the phones were not working.
Ready to part with my credit card, I went to the #Apple store and queued for a second time. The moment of truth arrived and I was tantalisingly close to a replacement phone. Or not. The quote was not the quote. “It might not say it, but everyone knows you have to hand over your broken phone for that price”. I didn’t. No one told me. It wasn’t in the quote.
The phone might be useless, but its carcass held value and everyone wanted a slice of the action. The insurers wanted it. #Apple demanded it. Just like a government department that makes a mistake, it was my tough luck. Exasperatingly, I arrange my third #Apple visit. “Don’t forget to bring your driving licence as photo ID next time,” said the Genius.
“Driving is such a popular activity with blind people”. I snapped.
We argued the toss and he suggested I bring my passport and just to be tricky I said I’d bring my bus pass.
“I’ll need your passport.”
“But what if I don’t have a passport? Are you saying that if I don’t have a passport or a driving licence I can’t have a phone?”
“You’ll need photo ID. We accept passports or driving licences.”
“I’ll bring my bus pass then. That’s got a photo.”
“I don’t think we can accept a bus pass.”
“What happens to the many disabled people who don’t have a passport or a driving licence? Are you saying they can’t have a phone?”
There was a stand off while an #Apple civil servant decided to make an exception and allow the bus pass as photo ID.
On my third trip to the #Apple store, I flashed my bus pass at the Genius who turned out to be at school with a friend’s son. He knew about bus passes and “OMG! You know Louise,” he said.
With any process set in stone, it’s who you know that counts. Perhaps this will prove to be useful work experience, should the junior Genius ever want to progress from the state of #Apple to a state of something more benign.
I might be red faced but I like to think it would be genius if the bus pass were right up there with the driving licence and the passport.
My friend, the Dynamo, and I are firmly of the belief that the car boot sale provides the optimum purchasing opportunity for plants. Lovingly grown by amateurs, selling off their excess Cosmos cheap, it’s a joy to behold. All of this can be washed down with a disgusting cup of tea, sitting on a plastic chair in a car park.
My personal car boot joy is dependant on being whisked to the car boot in someone else’s car, in order not to have to trudge home with arms weighed down by bags of potting compost and squashed plants. My friends are remarkably obliging in this respect; the Dynamo, Mr Dynamo and their son Dynamite, amongst them.
After this weeks’ expedition, the Dynamo offered me a lift home, via #Homebase where she had a pressing appointment with some sticky back plastic.
Homebase was not much of a draw for the rest of us, not even with sticky back plastic on offer, so Mr Dynamo, Dynamite and I, elected to wait in the car. Adult chit chat did for Dynamite, who turned the volume up on his play list, so loud, that Mr Dynamo and I were forced to leap from the car for the good of our ear drums.
We were the loud people with all the doors open and the music blaring, who were now shouting at each other. “Let’s dance,” yelled Mr Dynamo. So we did….in the car park…..at #Homebase. The boy racers, making a fast getaway from the hotdog stand near the bins, could not have been more conspicuous than a couple of middle aged would-be rockers with no rhythm, no coordination and, for at least one of us, no sense of where her dance partner was in relation to herself.
None of this deterred us, and as Dynamite slammed the car doors shut in disgust, we got into our stride and our second number. Not that this turned out to be any different from the first dance. Having got the hang of it, I was hardly about to vary the moves, which may explain Mr Dynamo’s observations: “We are getting some very funny looks”.
“What kind of funny looks?” I asked.
“Oh, just funny,” he said.
As qualifiers go, “oh, just” isn’t that helpful.
My friend the builder says, “when you walk into people they look furious. They think you’re an ignorant selfish so and so.” This is more helpful. I know where I am and how to respond. “Well, they’re not my friends so in the scheme of things I’ll live with it.”
Not being able to see people’s faces as they scowl and curse is not much of a loss. Funny looks I’m curious about. Were they amused? Did they envy our sense of freedom dancing in a car park, giving free reign to the handbag over my shoulder? Did any of their faces betray an admiration for our moves? Were they laughing with us, or at us? When it comes down to it, who cares what other people think? Could not knowing offer a kind of freedom for judging eyes?
It was all too much for Dynamite to bare. His embarrassment was complete. He switched the music off and did a bit more door slamming. The Dynamo came back, carrying more sticky back plastic than Lesley Judd could shake a stick at. Mr Dynamo and I caught our breath and got back into the car as if nothing had happened. I doubt we have a future on #Strictly.
I carefully closed the door, lopping the heads off the Cosmos in the process, leaving the blooms as a tribute to our impromptu dance and taking the roots home for possible cultivation but probable disposal.
Flying has been a feature of my life. I cannot begin to calculate how many flights I have been on. Not all of them have begun in Luton. There is one flight that could be described as a short haul flight that has turned into the longest haul flight in the history of flight. You might say it is a flight with teeth.
If the Wright brothers could establish the principle of man and machine acting in perfect unity, how hard could it be for one small girl, propelled by billowing folds of only a brush nylon nighty, to also achieve flight?
Take off went according to plan. Lack of depth perception meant that a wall I thought was somewhere over there, was in fact now in contact with my face and my days of independent flight had come to an undistinguished end.
After my ten-year-old friends had picked themselves up off the ground and before they had stopped laughing, I retired wounded and humiliated to nurse my bleeding mouth. If only I had seen that wall.
Pound for pound, that short flight has turned out to be more expensive than a first class Emirates ticket to Sydney. It has proved to be considerably less pleasant that the hospitality of Emirates airline. My girlish cavorting resulted in the death of my front tooth and the indignity of a crown.
While the dentist may feel smug about the longevity of his work, I have excellently curated the aforementioned tooth with daily flossing, skilled brushing and a regular polish. My shortcoming is that the same vanity that led me to think my brush nylon nighty would keep me aloft, led me to think that I do not have accidents. The available evidence would suggest otherwise.
My knees have never been quite the same since I went headlong over a tow bar I had not spotted. After my thirty something year old companions picked themselves up off the floor, and before they had finished laughing, I retired to nurse my bleeding knees. If only I had seen that tow bar.
Confident in the knowledge that the pavement I was on was not coming to an end, I fell off the end. When my fifty something year old companion picked himself up and smothered his amusement at this slapstick moment, I did not retire to nurse my bleeding mouth, but dabbed it with a tissue and carried on.
I concede there was a horrible moment when I thought I might have knocked my teeth out and lamented the uselessness of my cane as it languished in my handbag. It would seem that I do make mistakes after all.
A nagging sense that all was not well with my tooth led the Dentist to x-ray it. “That’s strange, it looks like a serious trauma injury,” he said.
I shook my head, dredging the depths of my memory for possible causes. Smashing my face on the ground never occurred to me as one of them.
“Come back on Monday for a scan and we’ll discuss your treatment plan.”
I think it might be vanity that has led me to this place. It’s a double edged sword. Vanity makes me believe there is always a way to do things, it’s just a question of how. Vanity may be what makes me leave my cane in my bag when sometimes I shouldn’t. Vanity may have benefits but comes at a price.
Implants are an expensive business. There’s bound to be a way to pay for this. A treatment plan? I might look into crowd funding. Whichever way you cut it, I won’t be flying anywhere for a while, unless the anaesthesia has something to offer.
I went to have a cuppa with my friend The Big Cheese. He’s always late so being punctual gave me ample time to navigate the “patrons only” use of the loo rule, before I became a patron.
The deal is that there is a code on your till receipt that is the code for the loo. I didn’t yet have a till receipt and was reluctant to stake my place at a table with my coat, just in case someone my size fancied that coat as much as me. So, at the counter I didn’t look much like a serious prospect but more of a chancer. Not to worry, the code, I was informed, was stuck to the door.
The code was indeed stuck to the door, just above the keypad. Both were impenetrable. Back to the counter, still wearing my coat. I explained my predicament. It gets dull after a while, to have to keep saying that you cannot see to do such and such and need a spot of help. The incredulous server looked puzzled. “You can see. The code is on the door,” she said.
“I know it’s on the door,” I laboured while crossing my legs. “I just can’t read it because I cannot see it. The problem is me. I cannot see. Can you help me?”
“No,” she said. “The code is on the door. You can see it.”
The Big Cheese ambled in. “Never mind,” I said. “My friend is here. He can do it.”
“Take me to the lavatory,” I demanded.
“Hello to you too,” he said.
“Can you operate the code for the loo?”
He punched in the numbers. There was a bit of muttering because he couldn’t get it to work either.
“You don’t need the code. It’s open. You just need to turn the handle,” said a passing member of “the team”.
For a man who is all teched up and who once gave me a laboured lesson on how to turn the telly on, this was a humiliation. He muttered a bit more and went to buy the tea.
Now all I had to do was work out how to lock the door. If all else failed I could ask the Big Cheese to stand guard. His powers of deduction might have also been able to explain why there was soap coming out of the paper dispenser and no paper in the soap dispenser. Luckily I am always prepared for this eventuality but have recently had to adopt new tactics since I have started to worry about my personal #wet wipe contribution to the #fatberge blocking London’s sewers.
For those who like to be prepared for the mysteries of public loos, and the paucity of resources they offer, and who have not yet embraced the #ecco friendly wet wipe, help is at hand. Your mobile phone can take the strain.
While the mobile might seem an unlikely salvation in these kind of emergencies, it just might lend a helping hand.
TapTapSee is an app that takes a pic and then describes what’s in the photo. Other apps are available (#CamFind and #Talking Google) but that’s the one I’ve got. The idea is that it compares what’s in the photo with a data base of known objects. Soap dispensers and loo paper should be amongst its library.
Now this is all well and good if you do tech, but I still need a technology big Cheese to tell me how to work the damn thing. It’s a great idea, but on balance I’m prepared to put up with the muttering of friends, and the strain on family relationships, my technological shortcomings have caused.
I’ve been to Gateshead, where despite the chill winds, skirts are still high. Northern women are tough, resilient to the elements but not without a soft side.
The receptionist at check-in asked me to verify my details on the bit of card they always hand you. I said that I’d be grateful if she could read it to me. She asked me if I needed my glasses. I said I didn’t as they wouldn’t help, but if she could read the card to me that would definitely do the trick. She leant over the counter and read my address to me in hushed tones, which was thoughtful given that the assembled throng was milling about at close quarters.
Check in complete, she said, ” I hope you don’t mind me asking. Are you partially sighted or blind?” I explained that I can see but I’m registered blind. She said it was incredible because I was looking right at her. I said it was all in the training.
“How sad,” she said and leant over the desk and squeezed my hand.” Never mind, we are here now and we’ll look after you.”
Resisting the temptation to poke her in the eye with a white stick, I asked if someone could show me to my room. Matthew appeared.
“Alright? You wanna elbow?’
“I’ll just follow on,” I said and off we set.
Matthew was a natural. He offered to give me a tour of my hotel room. It was well worth it. I have never had such good instruction on how to use the remote control. I’m challenged enough by my own remote control. It’s been in my clutches for more than four years now and I still don’t know which button does what.
Matthew gave me lessons in the use of the remote that I would’ve benefited from a lifetime ago. Who knew that my hotel room could offer the delights of instant switching between news on the telly and news on the radio. I’m addicted to the news. It offers all the escapism of a soap opera, just the right light touch of political analysis when my eye lids are drooping, and more information about sport than I feel is necessary to keep me awake.
“I’ll draw the remote on a piece of paper with all the details for you”
Why have I never thought of that?
“You can call me if you get stuck,” he said.
I usually resist the urge to call a friend. Friendship can be tested by these kinds of demands at 10pm. 10pm is the best bit of the day, for news hounds, forced to chose between news streaming on just about every medium. It’s also the moment when my news enthusiasm is bound to result in a bit of channel hopping. Inevitably, I go fifty fifty on the which button does what, and end up disabling the entire system as sleep is upon me.
Every hotel room should be blessed with a large laminate instruction on what the remote control has to offer. It might prove instructive to the people next door, who seem to follow me from hotel to hotel, and have their own troubles in operating the the volume button on their remote control.
As I lay in bed, I pondered the possibility of giving Matthew a quick call to ask him if he could pop next door to offer my neighbours some assistance or possibly draw them a picture of sleep deprivation.
Having bottled it, I had to resign myself to other people’s late night viewing, which offered just the right balance of football commentator excitement and crowd enthusiasm to keep me awake well into extra time.
My garden shed has been gently dissolving into the ground for some time now. In every cost there is an opportunity.
Having sat down with the Right Hand Neighbour to consider our shed options, I settled on a modest affair just right to stuff old ironing boards in.
Yvonne (not her real name) adjusted her head set because she was having a bit of trouble hearing what I was saying but we got there in the end. It was time to part with the long number on the front of my credit card. Yvonne instructed me to punch the number into my keypad. I said I’d rather tell her the number as I would find it tricky blah blah because blah blah. The previously composed Yvonne exploded. “You cannot speak the number. It’s GDPR. It’s the law.” She was incandescent.
“If you can’t see an exception…”
“It’s the law’, she bellowed. “It’s illegal for you to tell me your card number.” She was very loud.
“I am absolutely certain it’s not…”
“And I’m telling you it is. You have to punch it in to your keypad,” she barked.
I thought I did rather well in not rising to the fray. Blind or not blind, there was no negotiating with Yvonne.
You get three attempts to punch your details in correctly, I got mine right on the third attempt. If you get it wrong #Argos don’t want your money any more. If you are at a lose end, you could waste a lot of time, and theirs, playing this game.
I expected the flying squad would burst through my front door at any moment. #Argos could keep the police busy with all my illegal tendencies around paying for sheds.
We got to the end of the call and I agreed a day far into the future when I would be available to wait in for twelve hours in the hope that the shed might turn up. I hope it’s a whole shed this time, not a shed that comes in three parts over three days, necessitating the sacrifice of an entire working week, like last time. Then I pushed the envelope and asked to speak to a supervisor about the illegal speaking of credit card numbers.
After a bit of mood music, Fiona (not her real name) came on the line. If #M&S and #John Lewis routinely got people to speak their card numbers, I couldn’t understand why #Argos thought it illegal. Fiona agreed. She said that this was the first time anyone had raised this since the introduction of #GDPR. She could see that this was unworkable if you can’t see. She would call me back later. She didn’t. She didn’t email me either. Two weeks elapsed and so I followed up. I emailed again. She didn’t reply. I emailed again. She replied to say that if it’s too tricky to punch in your credit card number on your telephone keypad, you can take a trip to your local #Argos store or go on line. Now why didn’t I think of making my life easier by popping into town rather than picking up the phone? I said so. I never heard back. How rude is that?
If only the silence of #Argos had been replicated in my garden as the shed went up. “You’re an idiot,” and “I’ll finish that later,” and “I know what I’m doing so shut up,” were the precursors to lunch. I just hung around and watched the entertainment while the lunch went past its best.
You’d think they’d make it easier to part with your cash than your temper. No, that shed has left me smarting. Let’s hope Yvonne has calmed down.
Nowadays it’s not uncommon to have a job that is part of the grand scheme of your career as well as a job on the side, that might be a way to make money or it’s just about something you like doing.
I met a man whose main business was shady nightclubs and whose side hussle was philosophy discussions in the pub. I’m not sure how much pub goers were willing to pay for philosophy. I thought that was the point of the pub. Everyone’s a philosophers and you get the benefit of their views for free. My friend the Artists’ side hussle is wedding bunting. She is not short on customers. Like plumbers, you can never have enough bunting.
My friend, the Dynamo, and I have been thinking about a side hussle. This has involved a couple of bottles of wine, a pot of tea and a lot of up and down to throw another log on the fire. Stoking the fire did not inflame our imaginations and we are none the wiser but we might see if a good dinner can move things forward.
If all else fails, I’m considering a move into crime. Like all the best ideas, I stumbled on this one by accident.
I went to #UniQlo to look for T-shirts. After the changing rooms contortions I settled on a pair of trousers and agonised about the need for this purchase as I lingered in the queue for the till. With the doubtful trousers in an oversized bag, I made my way to the exit. There was a bit of a kerfuffle as a group of teenagers made a bid to get past me and out of the shop in front of me. As I went to move round them I found myself being hustled. The “hustle” to steer me towards the street was merely a critical move in their criminal “hussle”.
The teenagers piled out onto the street. With me snapping at their heels, the alarm went off. The teenagers sailed on. I stopped dead in my tracks. In the absence of a tap on the shoulder I wandered off.
“Hey! Stop!”
Could he mean me? Still nothing happened, so on I pressed.
“Stop there!” yelled the disembodied voice.
Cane in hand, I looked around but still couldn’t work it out so turned and set off for a third time.
The teenagers were now in front of me, jabbing at me with their bulging #H&M bags flapping in my face.
“You need to go back,” the first one said.
“Yeah, go on. Go back. You set off the alarm.”
“He’s gonna check your bag. Go on. Go back.”
Then they did a nifty backwards walk up #Oxford Street while I did the walk of shame and, in full view of anyone who was interested, had my unnecessary trouser purchase rifled.
“She’s alright,” bellowed the relieved #UniQlo assistant. “You can go,” he said and turned on his heels. He didn’t want the hassle of this hussle.
In the seconds it took for this rouse to unfold, I was a passive player. Why didn’t I finger the teenagers? Whatever made a middle-aged woman with a cane in her hand a more likely suspect than a gang of teenagers? Was it easier for the shop assistant to stop me than have to deal with them? Could everyone see what was happening but me?
Hiring myself out to shoplifters could be an excellent side hussle. It would have to be on a cash basis. A share of the booty won’t do it. Teenage fashion does nothing for my middle-aged frame.
I’ve examined my soul. I’m taking the trousers back and getting a refund.
Now I’m alert to the risks that public parks present me with: stray dogs with large teeth that will “hound” you for your lunch or even a takeaway tea, small children on scooters who can neither swerve nor break, teenagers on bicycles taking a short cut at top speed, joggers, beggars, hawkers and pick pockets. To the ever expanding list of hazards I can crash into, trip over or be robbed blind by, add the game of “boules”.
Anyone labouring under the illusion that boules is just bowls with a French spelling, had better think again. Boules is no sedate game, played in the warmth of a continental evening in areas reserved for old men to meet and chat about the important matters of the day, while nonchalantly chewing tobacco and casually rolling a wooden ball about. Oh no.
Boules is a fiercely competitive game in which metal balls are liberally hurled about like cannon balls. Players aren’t fussy. They’ll play it anywhere. For a good impromptu game, the intersection of pathways in public parks provide just the right sort of playing arena, perfect for the reach of determined players to aim and dispatch a large heavy metal ball at a small heavy metal target ball, strategically positioned for a bit of competitive throwing.
If you don’t know this, and are not alert to the dangers of boules and you can’t see those metal balls hurtling towards you, you are at risk of having your legs shot out from under you. You are at risk of being bowled over.
Coming back from a quick cup of catch up tea with a friend, I was purposefully striding through the City Gardens in Sofia. Wanda, my speaking google map, was giving directions in my ear. “Turn left,” she said, and so I did. What Wanda didn’t tell me, and could not have known, was that I was marching into a game of boules that was in full competitive swing. I was oblivious because I could not see it. The players were oblivious that I was oblivious because I did not have my cane in my hand. In my defence, an extended white cane would probably not have made any difference to what happened next. I was not in Kansas anymore.
In my oblivious state I wandered on to the pathway intersection, otherwise known as the field of play, and managed to kick a few metal balls about without noticing. That’s what comes of wearing sensible shoes. After a good deal of waving that I could not see, and a fair amount of yelling “stop” that I had not understood was meant for me, I was struck in the thigh by a metal ball, thrown with force, in order to put an end to my marauding, inconsiderate, arrogant foreigner ways.
Having been stopped dead in my tracks, and clutching my thigh, I began to look for clues as to the source of the assault. “Sorreeee,” came a chorus of sarcasm. “You should look where you are going.”
“No vision,” I said, pointing at my eyes and shrugging my shoulders in an “I didn’t know you were there,” kind of a gesture. “Sorreeee,” I said.
I was beaten back by a flurry of cannonballs bouncing along the ground and past me. I might have destroyed their game but not the accuracy of their aim.
Who would belief that boules would be such a serious business? The people who play it I imagine. Who would believe that someone wandering about, alone, in the middle of the afternoon, couldn’t see where they were going? The person doing the wandering I suppose.
Making sense of it all depends on the view from where you are standing.
I discovered I might be wearing the wrong reading glasses. I might have been wearing the wrong prescription for more than a decade. I’ve been using glasses that are designed for reading a book. I have long since stopped reading books. I read my computer screen.
Wearing the wrong prescription is all the rage: My chum The Doctor has been wearing her contact lenses the wrong way round. She’s been wearing the lens for distance in the eye she uses for near vision and the lens for near vision in the eye she uses for distance vision. “What idiots” she thought, when her monthly disposable lenses started to arrive with labels on them saying “L” and “R”. It took her a year to get round to going to see her optician to explain that she thought her sight had got worse. She had to sit through the indignity of being told she was wearing her lenses in the wrong eyes. It wasn’t her sight that was the problem. It’s a good job she’s not a surgeon.
What works best when the optician loads different lenses into the impossibly uncomfortable “is that better or worse” glasses, as you sit in the dark and glare at the inviable alphabet on the wall, may have a marginal benefit when sitting in the calm of the examination room. It can offer a worse outcome in the world at large when all the moving parts are moving.
After my first close encounter with a bus the optician gave me a serious talking to about the importance of wearing glasses on a daily basis. Through the “better or worse” test, we settled on a prescription and off I ventured. The startling change in my daily life was that I could no longer walk down the road without feeling dizzy. It was just like the head rush after a deep drag on a cigarette. Feeling wobbly on your feet does not help when navigating your way around traffic. Whatever the benefits of staring into space in my new glasses, daily life just got a whole lot harder. So it came as a relief when the Sisters’ dog ate my glasses.
My glasses have met their end in many different ways over the years: In a moment of absentmindedness, the Sister accidently grilled a pair of dark glasses, thinking they were fish fingers. I left a pair in a pizza restaurant where no one ever found them. I like to think that there is some clever opportunist walking around in my glasses feeling as dizzy as I did in the glasses I had before the dog ate them. I have left them in a Thai taxi and of course, I have sat on them. I have even trodden on a pair while looking for them after I dropped them. None of it was worth breaking into a sweat over. I’ve given up on prescription glasses.
There is one type of glasses I’m addicted to. Just about everyone else I know loves them too. Dark glasses are the must have specs. It seems counter intuitive, so If you’ve ever wondered why people who can’t see much favour the tint, it’s to keep out the glare. It’s why I like to wear my dark glasses in the rain.
I’ve developed a scarcity mentality about dark glasses. A few weeks ago I bought a pair I didn’t need to add to the already enormous collection. All of them are different and all of them have a different association. Just like anyone who has a lucky pair of pants, I like to think my tints can create just the same feeling of wellbeing. I choose carefully, depending on just how lucky I feel!
The Plumber was moaning about the cost of running a car. I told him that this was something outside my experience. He told me that his Father, who is registered blind, has three cars. What is it that makes people who can’t see much, or even anything at all, want to own a car?
The Plumbers Father has a people carrier that his wife drives him around in, in the endless rounds of house clearing, trips to the supermarket and dog walking. Then there is a little natty number that she nips in and out of traffic in, that’s low to the ground and easy to park. He likes the feedback that being so low on the road gives him. It reminds him of his youth. Then there is the sports car, top down wind in his hair job. Being a passenger is no bar to enjoying a bit of speed.
A friend of mine, who I shall not name as I want to protect my sources, drove himself to the optician to get his diagnosis of legal blindness. True, he could still see something, but not enough to drive. It didn’t stop him from driving himself home or to work the following morning, before his wife put her foot down so to speak.
My chum, The Tech, grew up in a family where everyone loved cars. From the age of fourteen he was driving on private land. By seventeen, he could properly drive, he just couldn’t see a car, let alone a number plate, at twenty-five yards. It was the first time in his life the law stopped him from doing something. When all his friends were learning to drive, he was banned from doing something he could already do. He felt miserable about it. That, as they say, was not the end of that.
While his friends were selling pizzas and pulling pints to pay for their driving lessons, he became a rather successful second hand car dealer. He knew all there was to know about three-year-old #Mondeos and spruced up #Golfs. When perspective buyers were tempted he had all the patter. When they fancied a test drive and asked if he could take it to the slip road and they’d take it from there, he’d explain this wasn’t how it was going to happen. No one seemed phased by the notion of a partially sighted car salesman.
One or two of his customers thought his lack of sight was a tragedy. Surely something could be done? A prescription windscreen perhaps? He had the last laugh. He made a packet.
I met a man who lost his sight in a car accident. His ambition was still to drive a formula one car. There is something magical about being in control of a powered vehicle on your own. My exploits in friends’ cars don’t count because I was never alone. The most I ever managed was the sit on lawn mower. I enjoyed taking the corners too fast. Apparently lawns should not have tyre marks on them or islands of tufted grass where I “missed a bit”. I was banned from the family lawn mower.
Steve Mahan was the first person to ever drive an autonomous
vehicle. He went to a drive through and ordered a taco, then he
picked up his dry cleaning. Steve is blind.
https://youtu.be/peDy2st2XpQ |
The zazazoo of putting your foot down and ratcheting it up a gear is hard to put into words. Just maybe driving autonomy might be coming to a town near me before I turn up my toes.
When Grace Jones slapped Russell Harty she created one of TVs' iconic moments.
Whatever you think of her response to her host turning his back on her, she did it with a very good hair cut. I know this because Trevor Sorbi cut her hair. It’s not that I know Trevor, but I know a man who does. He’s the man who cuts my hair.
For fifty years I’d been buying bad hair cuts from hairdressers the length and breadth of the land. After we’d settled the question of what my boyfriend did for a living and where I was going on my holidays, the conversation always followed the same turn. My hair was very hard to cut. “It’s because it’s all one colour”, they said.
So it was my fault. A few of my hair cutting foes took me by surprise by asking how I got my roots that colour. “It’s all Gods work,” I’d usually reply, my blond hair being intimately connected with my lack of sight. “I’m a natural blond,” I’d boast.
A hairdresser who can’t tell a natural blond at thirty centimetres doesn’t inspire confidence. As these increasingly expensive hair cuts racked up, I’d look into the glare of the back lit mirror (too much trouble to be turned off) and wonder what was taking shape on the top of my head.
“That’s quite a helmet of a hair cut you’ve got,’ said a surprised friend as she opened the door to me. I thought it might be bad but I had no idea it was that bad.
One particularly bold hair cutting foe suggested I dye my hair brown. “I’d look ridiculous” I said. “It would make you look normal,” she replied. Normal. What is that?
My anxieties about the way I look do not extend to the colour of my hair. I might not choose rubbish sight but the matching blond hair I can happily live with. The Flat Mate always has good hair cuts and I went to keep her company while she had hers done and was transfixed as the hairdresser went about his work.
It took twice as long as my hair cuts and involved Prosecco. I was impressed and said so.
“I’d love to cut your hair,” he said. “It’s very difficult hair to cut.” I was being defensive. He thoroughly ruffled my head. “I don’t see why.”
These days I love going to the hairdresser. Tom doesn’t find it a chore to switch off the mirror lights to take out the discomfort of the glare. He talks me through the hair cut, telling me about what I cannot see. He paints the picture as his cut takes shape.
Sometimes he’ll ask if I want to stop and get close to the mirror to see what he means. At the end when the full glory of a really good hair cut is revealed and that big old mirror gets flashed behind my neck, he’ll use his hands to explain exactly what is happening on the back of my head, so that I can form a sort of map of my head in my head.
After eight years of good hair cuts I wonder how many of my former hair cutting foes thought that just because I couldn’t see I wouldn’t know a bad cut if I had one?
I no longer blame myself. Difference need not be a bad thing. I celebrate my blond hair, and Tom's talent, sometimes with Prosecco, sometimes with a cup of tea as he goes about his work. I’m emboldened by my good hair cut. If anyone suggests I dye my hair brown they might just be in for a slap.
In my favourite shop the retail assistants wear luminous yellow jackets which makes them easy to spot as they weave their way in and out of piles of brown furniture. Over the years I have bought wardrobes, bellows, semi precious bunches of stone grapes, lead glasses and assorted cutlery. I am able to exercise little self control except in the matter of retail assistant number one who recently asked me what was in the bag I was carrying. “Trainers” I declared. “I’m going to go running and get fit.”
“You look pretty fit to me,” number one assistant said. “I reckon you’re built for comfort as well as speed.”.
Overlooking the obvious forwardness of this observation, the truth of the matter is that I might not be getting any younger or any thinner but have developed an ambition to run an uninterrupted mile. Then I am stopping before I do myself an injury.
Experience suggests that if I want to avoid running into things I will need a guide. The son, who is a serious marathon runner, is right. He says the best thing to do is to roll up a tea towel so that guide and runner each take an end and run together. The tea towel provides all kinds of useful feedback to the blind runner who can feel the direction of travel which grants him the freedom to simply run. The son suggested, that with me attached to the other end of the tea towel, we should run round Tooting Bec common together. This seems to me to be a complete reversal of our relationship and just plain wrong, so I slapped him down hard.
At school I was the person no one wanted in their team because I couldn’t see the ball. One brave sports master was so sure I was faking it he ordered me onto the hockey field. His remorse was near instantaneous and his shin injury, long lasting. As a young adult so much social life pivoted around sport, which I never took part in because I couldn’t see to do it. It was a double wammy. I didn’t know that there is a whole world of sport open to people with sight loss.
A long time ago I did try to go running on my own. On my very first outing I collided with a man who was waiting patiently for me to navigate my way past him. In hindsight, which is the best sight, I suppose it reasonable that he would have assumed I was going to run round him rather than in to him.
I’ve yearned for the imagined sense of freedom of running. In my imagination I am free from constraint and effortlessly powering ahead.
Setting aside the obvious challenges of being old, a bit on the round side and crushingly unfit, I’m quite enjoying running now that I’ve made a start. My running guide, says my technique is pretty good and I have nice breath control and the leg pain will pass. Who could imagine that something as simple as a tea towel could set one free.
Slowly, I am learning to let go and let someone else take the strain for a change. My running guide and I have now progressed to guiding by voice. I run at her left shoulder as she provides an ongoing narration of the terrain. It ranges from “that big tree root again left” to “a couple of stoned teenagers coming straight at us. Breath in now” to ” downhill nice and muddy” to “veer left for dog shit” to ” oops, that was a low hanging branch”.
I might even let the son take charge for a Tooting Bec Mile.
Middle age can be a productive time in a woman’s life. Who knows what the meaning of productive is. Is being productive the same as being busy? No. Is being creative the same as being productive? I hope so. I feel in a creative phase.
Doing new things mean learning new skills, so I’ve been scouring the internet to see what learning opportunities there might be for me to develop some of those skills. I settled on a course but before I signed up, I thought I had better give the Well Loved Institution, hosting the course, a call to check that learning materials would be accessible.
A person who sounded as if she was still in bed asked if she could help me. Her tone reassured that what she really meant was “Yeah. What do you want idiot? You’re disturbing me.” I explained that before signing on the dotted line, I wanted to check on the arrangement for accessible course materials because I am registered blind. There was a bit of argy bargy on where to find the course code she needed before she could answer the question. “I’m looking at that page on your site,” I said. “Whereabouts on it will I find the course code?”
“Ehh the internet,” she yawned.
I repeated the reason for my call and she said, “We don’t do courses for the blind. We only do courses for deaf people.” I tried again. ” We only do courses for deaf people. You could do a lip reading course.”
Giving careful consideration to my response for slightly less time than it took me to inhale, I said, ” I think lip reading for blind people could be a bit of a stretch.”
“Alright,” she said and put the phone down.
I contemplated calling back to make a snide remark but decided against it because I was clearly the better person in this exchange.
Now, the Well Loved Institution has a reputation to uphold so I paid my £199 in the hope that by its completion I will be an upgraded version of myself. Back came the reply that I was in, swiftly followed by a second email telling me what the evacuation procedures are for sight impaired and disabled students. We are to make our way to the clearly signed assembly point next to the lift on the first floor and wait for help to arrive.
Even if I could read the clearly marked assembly point sign, hanging about in a burning building waiting for help to arrive does not appeal. I get that on aeroplanes it’s every man for themselves and anyone who can’t operate the escape hatch or who can’t see enough to work out what’s going on might stop other people from getting out, so I accept that I get to sit where I won’t get in the way in the event of having to jump. But seriously? The best the Well Loved Institution has to offer is to direct blind people to a clearly marked assembly point and wait for help.
Learning new skills is always an adventure. Learning to apply those skills means that you have to be prepared to take a chance in life. What’s the worst that can happen? I might make a fool of myself. I might not enjoy myself. It’s unlikely I’ll get burned in the process, so I’m not worrying about fire.
Not enough people have signed up for the course so the Well Loved Institution is giving me my money back. I’ve signed up for an on line course, between 7-9 on Tuesdays. I got the concessionary rate and I can lie in bed while I expand my mind.
“Coleette” was showing at the flicks, so a couple of friends and I found ourselves navigating our way around an enormous windswept rooftop car park in a tiny car. The cinemas beckoned. At the ticket office an adolescent made me an offer like no offer I have ever been made before.
“Would you like to make use of the audio description facility that is free?”
I don’t know why it has never occurred to me to try this before. Imagine, you can go to the cinema and just as you might have naturally leant into the ear of your friend and asked what’s happening, a voice pipes up in your own ear “Missey is bearing down on Collette in an act of passion”.
“All you have to do is put them on and the description will automatically start when the film starts,” said the youth.” The excitement mounted. Nothing happened, because, the Youth had not switched the headset on and we were probably not the first people who couldn’t work it out as we fumbled about in the dark. I leant into ask my friend what was happening. “It’s a sex thing. I can’t really say,” she said. I don’t know who was more surprised; my friend at being asked or me because I never had her down as coy.
On the way out, I sniped at the man who used to serve clothes up, with such charm in #Hobbs, and now served popcorn at #Everyman. “You need to turn them on,” he said in a tone that pointed out my failings.
“I tried,” I said, “but nothing happened.””Look,” he said. “like this.” Presumably he was demonstrating.
“Your colleague said they were on, all I had to do was wait for the commentary to start.
“Everyone knows how to switch these on?” he barked to the team behind the bar.
“No,” came the reply.
“I’ll give you your money back,” and he did.
Reviews for “The Green Book,” looked good. Now I was the passenger in an enormous car that yet another long suffering friend was trying to park in an impossibly small parking space in a tiny car park. At the ticket office a fuzzy faced teenager asked me if I’d like to avail myself of the audio description. I said I would. “All you have to do is pop them on when the film starts.” He said.
“Do I need to turn them on?””You don’t need to do a thing. They’re good to go. Just enjoy the film.”
As the opening scene began, the static in my ear got louder and then it died.
This time I didn’t need to lean in to ask what was going on. My companion, who had not felt the need to offer any commentary up until this point, leant in and hissed “He’s been in a sauna having sex with a man and is going to get caught and beaten up by the police.” The point of audio description is not to anticipate the consequences of the action, but just to describe the action.
“What’s happening now?” I asked.” I told you. The police have arrived.”
At the till the fuzzy faced youth said, “And how was that for you today?””They didn’t work,” I sighed.
After a bit of close examination he announced they were broken. As he printed out vouchers for two free tickets he said that, “to be honest they never work anyway.” It didn’t surprise him they were broken.
I might use my vouchers for #The Vue to see a film that has had excellent reviews. Let’s hope the audio description works this time. The film is “Can You Ever Forgive Me?” I’d say that depends…..
The Sceptic Tank, (slang for Yank, as in a person who hails from North America) told me that on a recent taxi journey her driver asked her about her blindness. Her philosophy is to always engage as she’s educating the world about living with sight loss, one taxi driver at a time.
She set out the situation of the genetic time bomb, programmed to go off and trigger blindness just when you’ve bought a new car, and then tied it all up neatly in the richness of her life which is why she is not complaining. The taxi driver suggested to her that if she put her faith in God, she would be cured.
Sceptic Tank suddenly felt the need to pick up her emails and this would necessitate earphones. She excused herself from the conversation. The awkwardness was palpable. They both knew it. No doubt in an effort to relieve the tension, the taxi driver asked if she would mind if he put on the radio. She didn’t, so he did.
Christian rock was not a genre Sceptic Tank was familiar with so when the tune of something that sounded a bit like The Sex Pistols “God Save The Queen” came on she was a surprised to hear different words. Jesus loved her and he was letting her know Punk style. Jesus and the Sex Pistols seemed an unlikely union. This was turning into a surreal cab ride.
As she was telling me this story, including a full throated rendition of how alarming Christian rock had appeared to be, I was coughing with laughter. Once I’d got over the amusement of my amazement, it reminded me of just how outrageous some people’s behavior, in the name of Jesus, can be.
My chum Radiator (known as such because he is big and warm) was minding his own business sitting on a sofa in a shop, in the way that spare husbands do, while his wife was trying on clothes, when he felt hands on his head. Blindness prevented him from taking a swipe at the person to whom they belonged. “I’m a Christian,” said the owner of the wandering hands. “Let me pray for you.” Feeling trapped, Radiator felt the best things to do was not to make a scene and hope it would be quick. “Oh Lord…heal this miserable sinner of his affliction…” and so on and so forth, delivered with all the gusto of Billy Graham but in Fat Face, got rave comedy reviews by shoppers.
My uncle, the Monk, wrote to me twice last year to say he was putting me on the prayer list. I’m not in the least bit put out by this. It won’t do any good but it won’t do any harm either. So what’s the difference between going on the prayer list to be prayed for by monks, and the laying on of hands in Fat Face?
The prayer list seems to me to be a gift, an act of generosity, in which one person applies their energies so that others may benefit, and it happens far away where I don’t have to witness it. The taxi driver and the Fat Face assailant both support a view that it’s lack of faith, not being good enough that have brought blindness to our doors. In other words, “it’s our fault”. And there was I thinking my parents played Russian roulette with their genes.
In the bad old days of my youth, when people felt free to express their prejudices about blindness in public, my Mother would whisper in my ear, “It could be worse. You could be stupid. You see, there are always people worse off than you.”
I met the Builder coming up the road with his dog. He was chuckling to himself and told me that he had just seen a very funny incident. He said he wasn’t sure if it was politically correct to laugh at something to do with blindness but he couldn’t help himself. I asked him if it was a blind person or a sighted person who came off worst out of this story. “The sighted one,” he said.
“Go for it,” I reassured.
He was walking his dog when he spotted a blind man with his guide dog waiting to cross the road. The Builders’ dog began to pull, so he reigned in the dog in the hope of avoiding a diplomatic incident. As he got closer he noticed that a car had stopped and was flashing its lights to indicate to the blind man that he could cross the road. When nothing happened the driver started tooting his horn. Still nothing happened so he revved his engine while continuing to toot his horn and flash his lights. Still nothing happened. He gave up and put his foot down, disappearing in a trail of exhaust fumes.
The blind man and his dog stoically waited on the side of the road until both man and dog were satisfied it was safe to cross and there were no more lunatics tooting and revving their engines for who knows what reason.
As he told this story, the Builder began to wonder what this commotion must have been like from the blind mans’ perspective. “I can imagine it could be pretty unnerving to hear all that and have no idea what was going on. What an idiot. I mean the driver not the blind man,” he added in case I doubted his intentions.
Learning how to safely cross a road if you can’t see the oncoming traffic is quite a skill. Whenever a car stopped to let me cross it seemed cherlish not to do so. Then came the dreaded day when it revved its engine and tooted its horn and juddered towards me. From its hidden interior came a disembodied voice “You people make me sick. …… Idiot.” These days when a car stops, I wave it on and stand my ground. Just because a car has stopped does not mean that it wont’ start again.
The kerb offers protection from inadvertently wandering into moving traffic. It’s a touchstone that keeps me safe and is rapidly vanishing from urban landscapes as planners favour the development of #shared space where pavements and roads merge into one. #Raised dots don’t offer the visually impaired pedestrian the certainty that herein ends the pavement and begineth the road. It might look like good design but not if you can’t see.
In a snow covered city centre I once wandered from car park to four lanes of traffic without noticing I’d left the car park. That’s what #shared space has to offer me. I may as well be walking in snow. How will #guide dog owners know when it’s safe to cross if not even a dog can tell when one ends and the other begins?
Perhaps #shared space could build in a place for a spotter up a ladder with a loud hailer, who can keep an eye open for wandering pedestrians, and offer suitable instructions to any blind people meandering into the traffic. It could be modelled on an announcement I once heard at #Wokingham station. “Could the man with the guide dog please move to the other side of the yellow line.”
Much as I don’t like to toot my own horn, I could be on to something.
Only very recently did I take my first tentative steps into the world of social media. It’s a mine field. It’s like the girl with the curl. When it’s good it’s very very good and when it’s bad it’s horrid.
I know plenty of people with no sight who navigate the digital world with aplomb. I am not one of them. I considered going on a course in order to develop my skills to a level of #Twitter and #Facebook self sufficiency. Classes, it turns out, are not readily accessible if you can’t see much. So, I did the thing that anyone would do. I turned to #Google. #YouTube. Video tutorials are the perfect format for anyone who can’t see much. Clever old me!
I had to check what I click on to access #Google. It’s a browser. I’ve just changed mine. I used my browser to see if I could find an on line tutorial on how to invite my friends to join me on #Facebook. The choices were almost limitless. #YouTube came up trumps. I plumped for one. I had to sit through five minutes of an oriental dance troop but then the tutorial began.
There is always a video on #YouTube for just about anything from how to hammer a nail into a wall to how to strip down and rebuild an engine. If I could get my meringue to rise thanks to #YouTube, surely I could learn how to invite my friend Charlie to be my friend on #Facebook.
Screen magnification is a wonderful thing but if you are using it, you can only ever see a part of the screen at any one time. You have to be nimble to move from one part to another and keep a mental map of where you are on the screen at any time. I was looking at the lower left quarter of the screen. “At the top of your screen,” said the expert. I moved my mouse like fury and overshot. I’m now on the the blue space of screensaver. “Click on it,” She continued.
“Click on what?”
“Then simply move your cursor to here, and click on that.”
I’ve lost the plot. Where is “here” and what is “that”? In an effort to re-run I enjoy five more glorious minutes of oriental dancing, which, the narrator explains, was once nearly lost to the world. If only.
The expert tutor goes through a long and complicated explanation of what to do. After some frantic note taking and a few re-runs I go to #Facebook and give it a go. It doesn’t work. I go back to the tutorial. After more oriental dancing, the expert explains that there is an easier way to do this, with just a couple of clicks of the mouse. I do it and discover that all this learning has been for nothing because my friend Charlie is already a #Facebook friend.
I now know how to delete a post. Whether I remember how to do this is a different matter altogether. I know what a browser is but where “here” is, I don’t know. What “that” was, is forever a mystery. Ah well, few of us have the luxury of making our choices on absolutely all the available information.
His suspicions aroused by the large quantity of bleach nestled behind my loo, my friend Dan asked me if I was planning to make a bomb. I was not, but it got me thinking about the reason why and how I approach my rare trips to the supermarket.
The thing about shopping, if you can’t see, is that nothing is done on spec (excuse the word play) because you are going to have to carry it home. A Buy One Get One Free offer is all very well, but what if it’s a forty-minute wait for a cab or you end up having to walk?
At the supermarket, I’m the woman with the enormous trolley stacked high with loo roll, dishwasher salt and laundry soap. While I might shop like a polygamist with two dozen children at home, I’m simply taking advantage of some nice person who has offered me a lift to the supermarket and who has the space to spare in their car, for me to cram it with stuff that I don’t want to have to carry on my back because it’s heavy.
If I’m not to queer my pitch with my host driver, by keeping them waiting, a supermarket shop has to go like clockwork. The enemy of this approach is the ongoing choreography routine with just about everything from shampoo to granola. By constantly moving stuff about supermarkets sell more because shoppers have to continually scan for what they are looking for and end up buying things they weren’t looking for and didn’t know they wanted. Blink and it’s moved.
In a brilliant move I have cracked this obstacle to efficiency and at the same time managed to get in a full work out of squats. I calculate that this is about as much as it takes to work my way up and down the isles with my nose at label reading distance, bobbing up and down as I scan the shelves.
The top shelf is a mystery to me. I start with the next shelf down, press my nose forward and scan downwards. Sticking out my bottom gives me a better bend and I can generally get down as far as the second to bottom shelf. Then shopping etiquette goes to hell and I just pull the label off the shelf to do any price comparisons I think might be needed, or to avoid confusing tinned tomatoes and tinned peppers, chick peas and butter beans.
The blinky bob has only let me down once when, a search for biros went a bit wonk. A stubborn pricing label resisted parting company from the shelf. I sank further and further towards the floor in what I felt was a slow and controlled movement that a member of the public mistook for a total collapse. In a breach of first aid guidance, the ambulance was called before a proper assessment was made. The embarrassment was not mine.
At the end of an average trip to the supermarket I feel I’ve done circuit training; lifting, squatting, exercising the large muscles and moving at pace. My fantasy end to all this “exercise” is that in addition to the free paper or coffee I get offered at the till (neither of which are any use to me since I can’t see the papers and dislike coffee), I should also get a free foam roller, the type that runners use to loosen out their leg muscles at the end of a workout.
Together with the free paper reading coffee sippers, I could perch horizontally on my free foam roller, slowly rolling my thighs across it while letting out expletives to celebrate the good that shopping has done me.
My neighbour was kind enough to drive me to #Heathrow terminal five. It rose out of the Hounslow ground like the architectural jewel of an emerging state, and proved equally hard to navigate our way into. Once there, it gleamed even brighter than the orange façade of #Luton airport departure terminal. The unprepared traveller could be blinded in the reflection of all that glass and chrome. You need dark glasses to enter there.
How to work out where the walls, stairs and floors began and ended in all that reflected glory turned out to be quite a challenge. Hardly had I had time to get my cane out when the much trumpeted #British Airways customer service swung into action. An explanation of my predicament was met with an equally firm explanation that the worlds favourite airline no longer offered assistance. Politely but firmly, I offered up the best challenge I could for six in the morning. “I can give you directions to the gates”. Was the reply. That would have to do for now. “Certainly Madam, they’re over there”. Just like an air hostess pointing out the escape routes, she pointed into oblivion.
“I have no idea where over there is,” I said. “I can’t see; so can you describe how I get there?”
“It’s over there,” she said.
On the third time of asking she got it.
Standing bare foot and vulnerable while my shoes are checked for explosives and my bags are being rifled by youths in crisp new uniforms, that they shift about awkwardly in, I am approached by one of them who informs me that weapons are prohibited and must be surrendered. I explain that I don’t have any weapons. “What’s that then?” he says making a play for the cane.
“It’s the universal symbol of blindness. I can’t see much.”
I don’t put up any resistance to his request to check for hidden explosives or elicit mascara or whatever it is he thinks I have concealed. My feet are now freezing.
He returns with my monocular in his hand. The monocular is an essential, something I use every day for reading signs when I’m out and about. (like half a pair of binoculars).
“You can’t have this,” He says with an air of triumph.
I protest that no one has ever tried to take away my mobility aids and that I will not put up with this.
“it’s a weapon.” The youth is obsessed. “You can’t have a gun sight,” he says.
I am momentarily stumped by this. Very slowly I explain that I am blind, not an assassin.
“You don’t look blind to me. You need a doctors’ certificate. How do I know you are not lying?”
My mouth is hanging open while I compose myself and consider my dignity as I think about how I want to respond to this. Pausing to allow enough time to engage the brain with the mouth is a useful skill come of age. It is a skill the youth has not yet acquired. He does not let the grass grow under his feet. Sensing he is now onto something, he delivers his killer question. “How many fingers am I holding up?”
I say that I don’t have to subject myself to this and demand his supervisor is called. He repeats the question.
Who knows how many fingers he was holding up, but on balance it seemed best to humour him, bring matters to a swift conclusion and move on. I stuck up two fingers and we all know what that’s the universal symbol of.
The God Daughter, has the most phenomenal finger nails I have ever seen. They are long and polished and sometimes bejewelled. I wonder how it is possible to be a working Mother with these finger nails. The God Daughter is a tour de force and has probably taught her children the importance of being able to deliver a good manicure as part of their preparation for pre-school.
I confess that I am jealous of the God Daughter when it comes to finger nails.
I long for the well manicured hand like those of my friends who are inclined, and able, to do this for themselves. I am not organised enough to book a manicure and have an in built aversion to discussions about where I am going on my holidays, or where I have been on my holidays or whether or not I was waxed for my holiday or want to book to have my hair ripped out by the roots as part of the preparation for going on holiday.
I am unsure what my hands look like in comparison to the gold standard of the well manicured hand and suspect that not everyone has as much of the detritus of their sinks under their finger nails as me. I could be wrong about this.
The manicure is largely limited to a quick swipe with an emery board and a dab of hand cream. I think that’s passable. Feet though. Well feet are another matter altogether.
At a time when I could see my finger nails in front of my face I still knew what my feet looked like. Nowadays my feet are an overseas dependency. Toe nails are invisible. What I dream of is feet that can be taken out in public and are not a shrine to talons and scales. How do you avoid having the feet of a dragon when you are thinking of being a kitten?
You might take yourself off for a pedicure and polish. It never seems to offer the vigour required to alleviate the dragon in me. What is required is a trip to the podiatrist. I imagined, briefly, once, that not being able to see your feet would qualify you for NHS podiatry.
“Can’t you ask a friend to cut your toe nails?” said the GP.
“Would you ask your friends to cut your toe nails?” I snorted.
She took my point.
Every NHS Clinical Commissioning Group sets its own rules about who gets access to podiatry. Mine operates on a points system: You can score a possible sixty-four points. You need thirty-two to qualify to get your toe nails cut on the NHS. Points are accumulated by means of having long term conditions like poor circulation, ulcers, arthritis, diabetes and so forth.
Its tough luck if being blind is the only bar to cutting your own toe nails. You only get sixteen points for being blind and that’s not enough to qualify you. You will simply have to ask a friend or pay £40.00 every time you get your toe nails cut. At the rate my nails grow, I calculate that the average annual cost of about £400. My local Clinical Commissioning Group https://www.westhampshireccg.nhs.uk/ is rated as “in need of improvement”
I calculate that I would be better off putting the God Daughter’s children through Beauty School rather than pre-school. They would have a skill for life and I’m sure I would find ways of helping them express eternal gratitude for my generosity.
The God daughter and I agree on a lot. What a pity she could not see the merits of this scheme. I have not seen her since I suggested it. She is probably giving herself a manicure.
Everyone has a drawer of dud gifts for recycling. Don’t they?
In my drawer are quite a few crystal angels with the power to heal – allegedly. These were given by people who like to knit their own mung beans. There is a selection of magnifying glasses I don’t know what to do with. Some nice people thought of me, while rummaging through the 50% off section, and assumed that another magnifier would be a fun thing to own. There are also quite a few candles.
It’s not that I’m a candle killjoy. It’s just that there are things in life that I don’t like. Top of my list is rice pudding. Milk puddings are the food of the devil. If you have cataracts the naked flame flickering away in front of you has all the seductive powers of an ocular migraine and is the work of the devils’ assistant.
I know there are people that love candles but I’ve noticed that the people who gift them don’t have their houses stuffed with them. I’ve never popped over to anyone’s for a drink to find the house entirely illuminated with scented candles.
I have a theory that the same people who buy scented candles, buy soft toys for their adult friends. I don’t want soft toys cluttering up my house to trip over and I don’t want candles flickering away like nasty little optical jabs. Neither of these things are ambrosia.
My friend the Opera Singer gave his daughter a spectacular pair of suede boots, with heels like stilts, for Christmas last year. She was delighted. Don’t give me shoes with heels. I need my feet for working out the terrain underneath then. Stilettos don’t give enough feedback because not enough of the foot is actually in contact with the ground. Only do it if you want to kill me or intend to carry me. If it’s the latter, I need advance warning.
Don’t buy me books either. I can’t read them. Just because I have a pair of reading glasses does not mean to say I use them for reading. If you buy me a book I might just put it in the dud presents drawer and give it back to you next year. Hats with large flowers on the front don’t look good on anyone over the age of five. A video on canoeing proficiency doesn’t float my boat. A day spent clay pigeon shooting is lost on anyone registered blind. If I get garlic again (you know who you are), I will leave it behind your radiator.
If you are thinking of anything without a VPL make sure the cotton content is in all the right places. I’m receptive to jewellery. I’m positively humming at the prospect of another driving experience. A really good scent (without the candle attached to it) would be heaven. (Room fresheners wont do) If you’re pushed for cash, how about a nice cup of tea, or a good yomp in the countryside and a chat?
Who can resist the smell of a real tree inside the house? There have to be tree lights, of course, to be switched on occasionally, when I have my back turned! There will definitely be stilton and marzipan. There will definitely be champagne. There will be late nights, late starts and people I love. I’d rather have time with friends, the Son and the DiL (daughter-in-law), than stuff.
Santa Baby, I’ve been an awful good girl this year. So anything under the tree, for me, please, could it not involve wax!
I have an inherent fear of snakes. Even the most innocuous of grass snakes assumes the status of an anaconda in my imagination.
As a child, I sought out the privacy of a large bush, only to discover that I had picked the very spot favoured by adders. I don’t know who was more surprised, the adders or me. It’s a testament to youthful speed and agility that I lived to tell the tale.
As a student I was once enjoying a moment of privacy in our shared house bathroom when I began to suspect I could have overdone things. The lino appeared to be moving. There was something on my foot. While I could not be certain, I was taking no chances and the sequence of events went; departure from bathroom and house followed by the securing of clothes. It turned out to be a garter snake that I had unknowingly shared several nights in front of the telly with. No one had said a word. I never went back.
On an elephant ride through the rain forest in Thailand, the Mahout thought it would be amusing to give us a close up view of long black snakes hanging from the tree. In an effort to keep me calm, my companion counselled against this course. The Mahout, who had huge pupils shimmering like saucers, was only encouraged. I held on tight as a snake brushed past me. I never saw it until it was literally upon me. My companion had to hold me down.
When I was in Delhi I ambled across a very pretty court yard, narrowly missing a collision with a small unimposing man sitting cross legged on the floor. What I didn’t spot, but my friend did, was the cobra in a basket in front of him. Knowing how scared I would be, he never said a word until after we had left.
At a picnic table outside Cairns, the then sixteen-year-old son said to me, “whatever you do, don’t turn round.” I turned round to find myself nose to nose with an enormous python. On the upside, it was good to know that I had lost none of the agility that had saved me from the adders. In a seamless maneuverer, I vaulted the picnic table, sweeping away a picnic for six. I took out at least one of the small children sharing the table with us before ending up face down on the ground.
Amidst the crying and gasping, hysterical laughter, cheering and clapping all around me, the Son was not sympathetic. “I told you not to turn round.”
Recently I fear I spent a night in close proximity to a snake in a vivarium no one told me about. I enjoyed a perfectly good dinner and nights slight in ignorance of this fact. Had I have known, I should have immediately left. Knowing it now, I put my trust in my friends coming clean next time around.
It is one of the quirks of sight loss, that in trying to make sense of the visual world, and being hard wired to spot danger, I cannot help but let my initial assessment of the situation scream a warning. My initial assessment is not always the most reliable. In the rolodex of possibilities that runs through my mind, and on the limited visual image available, first thoughts don’t always turn out to be right. A flashing thought that I am standing next to a bear on the Northern line sends my stomach into a lurch. Fear is quickly tempered by a rationalisation that this is a person in a fur coat.
When the Lady in the Van spotted a Boer constrictor on Parkway, everyone laughed, but she turned out to be right. You can never be too careful.
A conversation about unemployment rates amongst disabled people of working age reminded me, not only how lucky I have been, but of the sheer lunacy of prejudice. If it weren’t quite so serious it would be funny.
My teenage ambition was to be a criminal defence barrister. I was not an idiot. I’d seen #Crown Court and what’s more I came from a family of lawyers and already had the wig. My aspiration was met with two questions: “How much do you weigh?” and “Have you considered basket weaving?” As careers interviews go it was not an unqualified success, even by 1970s standards. My teacher lit a cigar and picked up a copy of Playboy. The interview was over.
That was the first and last time I got careers advice. It was the first hint that the world of work may not be as eager to receive me as I was to embrace it. I would have to wing it.
My Grandmother was vocal on the subject of my future: I would have to get a job because “no man will ever marry her,” on account of perpetuating the defective gene, and my “goes without saying” sorry looks. I would need a job and social housing. The solution? Physiotherapy. I had other ideas.
Being too blind and too blond has got me into all kinds of trouble: It transpires that men are not as picky as employers, when it comes to blonds with sight loss. Having got into one very particular type of trouble I needed to get a job in order to support myself and the product of the trouble; the wonderful son. Opportunities were not thick on the ground. I winged it.
In my mid thirties I was head hunted for a job, but when I turned up on day one, I knew I was doomed. As she wielded the axe, my manager said, “I can’t put you in front on the client with your glasses. It’s so negative…. You need to do something about the way you look…. You look cheap and brassy with that hair….” It was the nineties.
Somewhat shaken by this experience I was telling a neighbour, who worked in HR. she said, “that’s terrible. How horrible.” Then she added, “I can see that you would be a health and safety risk. That’s why I wouldn’t give you a job.” Everyone knows that if you can’t see much you are far more likely to spontaneously combust. I combusted.
As I climbed the greasy pole and got my first board job a colleague expressed his surprise, that I should be elected. Ironically, he couldn’t see how I could possibly read board papers. He thought that finance must be completely beyond me. As I explained the principles of reasonable adjustments, and assistive technology, he pulled a face. “You need to see people’s faces,” he said, “otherwise how will you make a judgement?”
“On the evidence I should think.”
As it turns out, there are quite a lot of people who sit on boards who don’t feel the need to read the papers, and who are perfectly happy to put their views forward without benefit of the facts.
The evidence that glasses are negative, natural blonds look cheap (or have more fun), disabled people are a health and safety risk or that blind people can’t sit on boards or understand finance, doesn’t exist. That’s the point about prejudice. It’s not evidence based. It doesn’t let the facts get in the way.
Weirdly, I quite like walking uphill. There is no denying that age, expanding girth and lack of fitness make this more of a challenge than for the younger, thinner and fitter, but as my friend, The Big Cheese, would say, “none of us are getting any younger or any thinner”.
Downhill walking has had its day. After the rib cracking incident I’m for the climb up and working up a good sweat. There is no better place on earth to do that than The Cinque Terra (Five Villages) on the north west Italian coast. If you can do it in thirty degrees of heat, surrounded by hoards of tourists running past you like goats, you could grab yourself a little bit of heaven.
As leg stretches go, it can be a challenge because the unmatched beauty of the coastal path is well and truly matched by the gradient of the ascent itself, of which there is a lot, not to mention the precarious nature of the ground under foot, which I can’t help but mention. This is not a stroll for the half hearted walker but the determined hiker.
With only my cane and friend Max shouting warnings about death and destruction, the long drop and some nasty looking barbed wire, off we set, reaching the first village by lunch time. We even met another blind hiker who was better equipped than me.
As the afternoon progressed we met lots of people coming the other way who had a rather better view of our graceful progress than those behind us. “My, you’re brave,” people said to Max. What about me? I’m the one exercising blind trust here.
“Oh boy,” said a pesky American. “That’s quite a responsibility you’ve taken on there.” I can’t repeat what I thought.
“OMG. I feel sorry for you.” Max bared her teeth.
In a bid for solitude we veered off the coastal path and hiked in the National Park where we met a couple of walkers and a lot of lizards. The great thing about lizards, unlike people, is that they get out of the way and say nothing.
It was only a half hour stroll to the village, a quick train journey and a swim. We were on safe ground for a good lunch with lashings of wine. How wrong can a guide book be? Very wrong. We were two of only seven other people who didn’t know about the vertical descent, or who had possibly read the same guide book we had.
An easy half hour stroll turned into a two-and-a-half hour step by step narrated guide down one of the most treacherous paths I have ever walked. Ropes and crampons would not have been out of place. We sobered up fast. “Move and you’re toast,” said Max.
“Do you need medevac?” asked another hiker.
“We need a drink,” said Max.
“You need water?”
‘Not that kind of a drink,” said Max.
It never occurred to me that this was anything other than a straightforward exercise in logistics. I had an expert guide and was still flush from lunch. My trusty cane substituted for the hiking poles I couldn’t be bothered to pack. Much like everything else in life, it all confirmed that ascendancy is always better than descent. If you have to descend, make sure you drink enough to do it with grace or a general sense of no self awareness.
We took all this exercise and dicing with a sheer drop, as a licence to indulge in Italian food and just a sip of wine. We might have been said to have eaten like Lords. We ate more like maiales (pigs), or was it that we ate a maiale. Whatever it was, we showed absolutely no restraint and enjoyed every second of it.
Here’s what my long suffering companion had to say on the subject:
Notes from a guider:
I mostly see Anna in her natural habitat where, unless told, one would hardly notice her visual impairment. Foreign fields, or in this case challenging cliff top hikes, certainly presented another dynamic to a friendship. This holiday needed me to be more aware of my physical surroundings and so it enhanced my Italian experience enormously.
Here’s what I learned about guiding
- There is more to a view than looking forward.
- Talking incessantly for hours at a time is useful and I can achieve this when sober.
- Beer tastes nicer when you have spent hours walking in the heat.
- Too much Italian wine make you talk incessantly for two hours and be of no use at all.
I’m not one for rambling on about rewarding pursuits and do gooding. So I won’t. We all guide our friends on their way forward, as they do for us. It enhances friendships and could bring new ones. Try it.
My hosts were in their usual good form. The food was excellent. The wine was flowing and the slow gin homemade.
The conversation was about the local fishmonger and the aspirations of young adult children, holidays taken and the long awaited driverless car. How the world has changed since we were young.
As a slave to pubic transport timetables and as someone who never goes anywhere without a pack on my back, a bag in my hand, or both, the driverless car offers a seductive freedom of movement that people with sight impairments can only dream of. Imagine being able to go wherever you like, whenever you chose and not having to carry your worldly goods on your back or ask for a lift or plan ahead. “Sign me up,” There was general incredulity that I could not see enough to drive, although I was not the only non-driver at the table.
In a seamless manoeuvre, a conversation unfolded in which my dining companions articulated their inner most fears of what would happen if they went blind. I seemed to be invisible. It wasn’t my conversation. My blind story tops yours would not do. I sat back and listened.
A man, of woman next to me acquaintance, had lost his sight over the course of twenty years. “It was a tragedy”. He had been good looking and now he couldn’t see his own face in the mirror. I fleetingly thought about tips on the application of mascara. Probably not helpful. “Can you imagine not seeing your own face. You’d be lost to yourself. You would have no idea who you were.” Luckily for me my sense of self does not derive from the blur in the mirror.
The poor unfortunate friend went from being able to read a menu to having to have the menu read to him. That seemed reasonable to me. He had to count the number of steps from his front door to his front gate. That sounded sensible. I know exactly how many steps there are from my front door until I need to start to tap my toe to look for the top of the first step.
I don’t want to under estimate the havoc and sorrow that losing your sight brings. That’s real, but it need not be the end of a good life. If you come from a position of being fully sighted you cannot imagine a life without seeing. I get that. for them it was a binary position. You can either see or you can’t. Most blind people have some sight.
“My God, that’s no life” said one of my fellow diners. “If I thought I would lose my sight I’d kill myself.” Most people grieve for the loss of sight and find a way to come to terms with it. Death is not the inevitable outcome. Human beings are hard wired to survive the best way we can. Most of us turn out to be swimmers, or doggy paddlers at the very least.
I’m a bit fuzzy about whether all this reflected a view that visually impaired people have no value in the world or whether it was just good old fashioned fear. Who knows what life will deliver to us. If it’s not one thing it’s another.
For better or worse I held my counsel and sipped the slow gin. I was in a slow gin kind of mood and it was excellent. Life is sweet, sweeter than slow gin. No doubt that helped as I counted my way home.
I like to think I am a woman in my prime. The evidence does not necessarily support this position. There are those that think I have the technology skills of an Edwardian, retaining something of a fondness for pen and paper. I hanker after #Basildon Bond and the letter. That makes me very old and not at all in my prime.
Technology is supposed to be a liberation; enabling my computer to speak text and enlarge font at the touch of a button, so that blind and partially sighted people can participate in the world of work, and reading for pleasure, and lets not forget social media and flirting.
I am not a reliable user of technology. Yesterday I inadvertently recorded a chunk of “The Bottom Line”, as a text message, and then accidentally sent it to my son. “Are you drunk?” was the reply. At least he didn’t ask if I was senile.
I have social media and the trouble begins once I start to try to use it on my phone. It’s super easy to #tweet a copy of your latest utility bill. Luckily I have few followers. I also confess that I used to love a bit of flirting along with the giant font, and so do those around me. That is to say, others have unexpectedly read my texts because large print is the text equivalent of shouting.
People often ask me what I can see. I have no idea. I often wonder what they can see and they have no idea. Neither of us have a clue how to bridge the gap but I think I might be learning. Size, it transpires, matters.
A colleague of mine told me he could read my handwriting upside down and across the table. My notes were not for sharing but just prompts because I am old and forget stuff. This is a definite way to lose bargaining power. I’ve learnt not to do it. So why not apply the same rules when urgently texting?
In the heady early days of a new love affair, the object of my insanity sent me clear instructions on how to upload #WhatsApp to my phone. I was clueless but game. I managed to disable all of my devices, disable any further downloads and upload the football results. The source of all my troubles said, “it’s a start”, and saw the football score as a useful bonus.
This technological shambles necessitated a trip to the phone shop, where I declared that I thought it all a waste of time. I saw no advantage to this new means of texting over the traditional form. The sales assistant took the opportunity to explain the advantages of end to end encryption. Such alternatives, he whispered, were favoured by those hoping for a somewhat racier form of communication and asked if it was a man who had made the suggestion. I went pink but signed up for lessons on the spot.
WhatsApp may be encrypted but if you are typing in huge font, on a train in rush hour, you should know that the person behind you will know when you lie about what you are wearing. They will know long before you that this is not a great love but a giant con. They will know that you could probably do with exercising better personal judgement. They will make all kinds of assumptions about the person you are because they have read your text exchange.
Sometimes, it’s hard to imagine what others can see. Just because you can’t see it doesn’t mean to say that they can’t either.
I was in a pizza restaurant dithering over what to chose. “My God,” said my newest colleague. “Your eye sight is terrible. You should go to Pakistan and get that fixed. My wife had terrible sight. Not that bad, but she really did have trouble.
She went to Pakistan and got it sorted. She can see fine now.”
I said that it wasn’t an operable thing and that I had made my peace with it a long time ago. He leant in and wagging his finger at me said, “Have you been to Pakistan?” I said I hadn’t. “Well there you are then. If you haven’t been to Pakistan how do you know?”
I explained that I was in no doubt that it wasn’t operable. “But you’ve never been to Pakistan,” he said leaning back in his chair and throwing the menu down on the table in a kind of “I rest my case” gesture.
“If you were serious about it, you’d have been,” he said, shaking his head and frowning.
“I’m not,” I said and that was the end of that.
People have interesting ideas about what they feel able to comment on:
On holiday in Thailand, a Brit that I kept bumping into, bounded up to me while I was waiting to cross the road. He leant in and in a sort of sideways voice asked, “what’s up with you anyway?’ I looked quizzical.”Well, there’s clearly something up with you.”
I was genuinely mystified. “I’m fine.”
“You’re obviously not. You can’t see. Have you been to see a doctor because you need help.”
“Go away,” I said, or words to that effect.
I had arranged to meet a friend in a pub. He wanted to introduce me to someone he thought I might enjoy meeting. As I came through the door of the pub my phone rang. I checked the screen to see who was calling. “It’s me,” he said. “I’m at the bar. Walk straight ahead.” So I did.
Before we had a chance to say hello his companion put her hand on my arm. “I don’t know if you know this, but you’ve got a serious problem. You need help.” Then very slowly, she mouthed the words “I’m a doctor. You need to see an optician because you cannot see. You have a problem with your eyes.” My friend had his head in his hands. “Don’t do this. Don’t do this,” he was muttering. “She knows…. She Knows….Oh God.”
While buying sheepskin slippers recently, the woman who was serving me asked if I had cataracts because she would recommend having them removed. “I’ve just had mine done and it’s fantastic.”
“How wonderful,” In an effort to keep it simple I added that cataracts weren’t the problem.
“Is it glaucoma?” she asked enthusiastically.Before I could get to the end of “No” she said excitedly “Oh,” and now she was clicking her fingers with the general sense of being nearly at the answer. “macca something…I know it…. don’t tell me…it’s mac-o-something.”Her husband interjected. “Don’t be stupid. It’s something to do with your hair isn’t it?” I knew what he meant so said “Yes,”
“I knew it the moment you walked in. I’ve seen your people before.”
Curiosity is a powerful driver. It never ceases to amaze me what people will do in the quest for knowledge. However poorly executed, of all the intrusions into the detail of my personal biology, my exchange amongst the sheepskin was, I think, born of a genuine desire to try to understand and help. What’s more, I got 20% of the price of my new slippers.
Here’s a great link: https://fcunitedtom.wordpress.com/2018/11/06/youre-not-blind/
There are lots of apples falling off the tree in next doors garden. There is an abundance of windfalls, in my garden, that the local wildlife like to avail themselves of. In my efforts to deter the marauding intruders with fur, tails and long yellow teeth, I have just been out to pick up the rotten fruit and put them out for tomorrows compost collection.
I have a little trick to keep the side gate propped open while I nip out to the compost bag. It has never failed me. It has never failed me until today. I turned around, from the compost bag, in time to see the gate slam.
Three years ago, I was burgled. In my efforts to deter marauding intruders of the two-legged variety, I fitted a gate with a security lock that is operated by a key pad. It was not enough to keep my eighty-year-old uncle the monk from breaking and entering but it has just proved sufficient to the task of keeping me out of my own garden.
Finding myself locked out, I had to dredge up the code from the depths of my extremely addled brain. Entering the code was another matter altogether. What I had not accounted for was that I have never taken the trouble to map out where the numbers are on the keypad, so there was absolutely no way of knowing what to do.
It would be an embarrassment to have to climb over the neighbours’ wall, so I took a stab. I took another stab and came to the conclusion that it was pointless to even try. I would have to ask the neighbours if I could climb over the wall.
It is not that I mind asking my “right-hand” neighbours if I could disturb their supper and whether or not they would be prepared to help propel me over the garden wall. They are not called my “right hand” neighbours for nothing. In the years that we’ve lived next door to each other they have set the boiler, the telly, the Wi-Fi, the radio and numerous other helpful things, not least the disposal of the microwave I set fire to. My concern was much more that I had just seen my “left” neighbour up the apple tree, picking the apples.
The “right hand” neighbour came to the door. I gave an apologetic account of my failed fail safe gate propping system and a rather confused explanation of my need to climb over the wall. I needn’t have worried. The “right hand” neighbour knows the code for the gate. He came around and let me in to my own garden. He did it with remarkably good grace given the number of requests, for the use of his eyes and his brawn, I have made over the years.
The “left” neighbour was still up the tree when I made it back into the garden. “Hello neighbour” he called from his vantage point. “Want any apples?” Such generosity. I should have been grateful but I was not. There are some people you don’t mind sharing your vulnerabilities with and some you would rather not.
In the scheme of things, getting locked out is not so bad. Forgetting to map the key pad out is a bit like forgetting to put the new front door key on your key ring and hoping the old one will do the trick.
“I should have done this sooner,” the “left’ neighbour said. “It’s concrete on my side and apples don’t survive the fall. What was I thinking?”
Perhaps none of us should be ashamed to show our vulnerabilities. After all, we are all only human.
Being a fugitive from justice is a stressful experience. I know, because I experienced this. I experienced it briefly, just for a nano-second, in the REM dream state that most of us experience just before we wake up. My crime? I was caught on camera driving down a North American highway. I was over the speed limit by one mile an hour and caught without a licence. For this, I now faced extradition and a life in a penal colony. On the up side, it was not likely to be a long life under these circumstances. While I waited for my good fortune, in having woken up, to sink in, there was tea.
I confess to having a bit of a green eye when it comes to driving. It used to be, that as my peers got wheels, I got more and more frustrated at the limits that not being able to drive apparently placed on me. What I know now, but I didn’t know then, was that we all exercise our freedoms differently and pay for our freedoms in different ways.
Sometimes you have to ask for what you need. Sometimes you have to queue for it, sometimes, you get rained on while you wait and sometimes everything goes wonderfully well. What you will never have to do is worry about losing your no claims bonus, scratching your paintwork or remembering to have a blanket and a shovel in your boot in case you are forced to spend the night in your car buried under a snow drift.
Now all of this does not mean I have not been tempted to speed down the wide open roads of South Dakota. I did once judder down the narrow lanes of #Danbury Ring in a #mini maxi. It was a short lived stint behind the wheel and culminated in close contact with a hedge.
The Son gave me an off road driving experience. It turns out that this is a popular gift from Mothers to their teenage sons. Despite the Son’s advance phone call, there was still some incredulity that it was me, not him, here to loop my way around a disused aerodrome.
After a safety briefing, the teenage boys and me made our way to our cars. It’s wasn’t a formula one start. No running permitted and rather more anoraks than could fit into a high performance model. Then came the explanation of steering wheels, brakes and so forth, all delivered in a tone of total tedium by the instructor. He did not appear to share my excitement at the prospect of driving round in circles with someone who couldn’t see the road ahead.
I think I was a natural. “ewww. Speedy Gonzalez……slow down” the instructor said. I did but speed is relative. Of course, I didn’t have the advantage of his view. Pot holes, it transpires, are more exciting if tackled head on than avoided. There is something exhilarating about notching it up a gear. Power steering is a must. The chicane is thrilling if all you have is voice commands to go on. When being driven by someone who can’t see where they are going, have a safe word like “Stop”. Duel controls are a must.
Next time I’m getting an automatic. All that notching it up a gear made my left leg ache for days afterwards.
Meantime, day to day freedoms are exercised on foot, on buses, on trains and taxis. The joy of this approach is that I’m not sitting in my car on my own, but enjoying snippets of other people’s lives and lots of fabulous conversations with strangers that I might not otherwise have had. I’m the richer for it.
I love technology: I love the oven, the kettle, the toaster. I loved the TV I grew up with. That’s the one that had an enormous “V” shaped areal that extended out of the top and sat on four screw in legs. It had a button for turning it on and off and a dial that could be set to three locations: BBC1, BBC2 and ITV. The only time we ever spoke to it, (and here I use the term loosely) was when the tube blew up and it had to be taken away for repairs.
I never speak to my desktop, tablet or telephone in the tone we spoke to the telly the day the tube expired. I use slow and measured tones in order that there should be no misunderstanding between us. I pride myself on having articulatory agility, which as every drama student knows, is a desirable ability. Not desirable enough for the technology that I now routinely speak to, which is petulant, defiant and doesn’t listen.
The intuitive claims of manufacturers are either untrue or I am lacking in intuition. Having worked out how to operate the dictation command on my Mac, which is different from other operating systems, that too has demonstrated defiance.
Last week I dictated, and sent, an email to my friend the Artist. It was urgent. It was to tell her that “sin, bed and shit. There is a mistaken paragraph five. Three lying times. Note that.” For good measure I capped it off with a text message that said, “we can spend a softer noon together.” This morning I sent her a text in which I wanted to express my quizzical surprise. “Super warts!” She was surprised and quizzical.
Radio four doesn’t fair any better than me. Siri perked up during this mornings eight O’clock news. I’m pretty certain that Susan Rae didn’t swear and wasn’t speaking to Siri. Siri though, appears to have developed a sort of teenage paranoia. The telephone beeped and Siri sprang into life. and there it was on the phone screen in giant font: The F word. Underneath was Siri’s response. “I don’t know what to say to that.” What is the world coming to when even Siri is offended by something Susan Rae didn’t say?
Since I began speaking to my technology, my friends have changed. They are not the people I thought they were. Who can blame them in light of the way I speak to them? Two of them are almost unrecognisable. Siobhan has become Siob Pain. Beatrice is now Beat Rice.
Making arrangements can be a tricky business. I invited the son, who does not eat meat, when other choices are available, “fir lunch”. Actually, that one probably doesn’t count as he accepts phonetic spelling as logical.
In writing this blog, Dictation has failed entirely for a reason I don’t understand. I will have to revert to the keyboard until the next primary school age child crosses the threshold and sorts it out for me.
I’ve come a long way in my use of technology. From the bad old days when I destroyed photocopiers (happily no longer a feature of my life) I feel I am well on the way to a diplomatic incident.
They say you have to practice in order to get your software to recognise your voice and learn to accurately interoperate what it is you are trying to say. It’s just as important to exercise a little patience and check its work. I’d never make a good teacher as I lack the patience to check, correct and explain or even to do it again. Uncorrected is much more fun!
I set off from Clapham to catch the train to Lancaster where my friend, the Author, would meet me. She would then drive to her house in Clapham. That’s Clapham Yorkshire, from where we would stride out for some good bracing walks, a thing we both love to do.
Turns out that I’d been sold the wrong tickets again, and the train that I’d asked for, and confirmed, my seats reservations on, was not the train I expected. That train had left an hour ago. Just to compound matters my breakfast was now lying on the concourse of Euston station due to an unsecured drinks lid. All of this was rectified by a swift repeat purchase. I am amazed by how fast I can move in the face of missing breakfast.
It turns out that there are two exits at Lancaster station. The Author was waiting at one and I was outside the other one, enjoying the taxi rank banter, when our texts crossed. She would come and find me. The time was not wasted. In my drive to improve my core stability, because diminishing sight tends to challenge balance, I achieved a hands free tip toe stand for ten seconds before my ankles buckled under the strain. I like to indulge in this particular exercise snack every time I find myself in a queue and the ten second challenge has eluded me ever since I began. Who would imagine such a small triumph could bring such joy?
Ankle strength is not wasted, because Yorkshire is a land of hills. While I know this intellectually, lack of three dimensional vision makes the upward gradient a surprise and the descent, full of even greater surprises.
The Author trotted ahead with practiced agility. She’s fitter than me. I claimed the slow stretch of my pace, as we climbed, a consequence of poor balance. While a blind truth, the greater truth is that speech would have been impossible had I attempted anything faster. I’m not sure if pauses to point out the lay of the land and our proximity to the #five peaks was a kindness born of painting the picture, or an act of preservation less I should expire. Whatever it was, we managed to talk while we walked.
Going up is one thing. Coming down is another thing altogether and out came the hiking pole that acts to give a sense of what the eye cannot see. In all the years of walking I have never had an injury. Priding myself on what is possible rather than what is difficult, we began our descent, when over I went. Winded but unbowed, we pressed on, the pain in my ribs taking a grip. So much for my willingness to take a risk.
“Yep, you’ve cracked your rib and sprained it, ” said the Physio Witch. “I’ll strap that up. I hope you’ve got good pain killers. It’s going to take about six weeks.” Then she got out her acupuncture needles and stuck two of then into my hand to help with the pain. An agony shot through me like chewing on tinfoil. The Physio Witch exhibited no signs of sympathy. “Don’t scream. The cats don’t like.” she said.
I have had to concede that trotting about with a computer in a ruck sack isn’t helping so I’m at home. “Rest up this week,” ordered the practice nurse. The pain killers have kicked in now. I’m bored. I’ve started on line shopping and the new pair of purple hiking poles have just arrived. I’ve checked in early for a flight that will take me away from it all on a coastal walk with sheer drops and plenty of steep gradients.
Worrying won’t help.
My picky friends have pointed out that this blog is full of idiosyncratic spelling mistakes. I plead visual impairment!
Early attempts at reading were centred around the adventures of Peter and Jane who rolled around in the front seat of the family car, chased moving buses and took to an inflatable raft in only their pants. The more I read the better it got. By the time I was becoming an independent reader the expanding cast of characters were dipping their fingers in boiling water, setting fires and testing for an electrical current with their tongues.
I can’t pretend to have ever given much thought to the individual components of words. Sight impairment meant that it was impossible to know, from looking, how many “m”s were in “tomorrow” and whether “silly” had one “l” of two. They all merged into one as far as I could see. No one ever bothered to teach me the rules because no one could imagine that I really couldn’t see what I was reading and I never bothered to tell them.
What I, and many others like me, were doing, was sight reading. I was looking at the shape of the word and making an educated guess, given the context of the story. It’s how I still read. I look at the shape of a world and make an educated guess.
Then came a major shock. It came in the form of spelling lists which had to be learnt by heart. Turned out that spelling was an altogether riskier business than reading. A wrong spelling on the Friday morning test resulted in writing the word out ten time. A second failure resulted in a slap across the palm with a ruler. If Peter could stick his tongue on a live electrical cable I could take a beating.
While I was a print reader I lapped it up. Nancy Dew took risks that surpassed even Peter and Jane. With her catch phrase of “Where is Sir Lock Holmes?” she was the gal to model myself on. Was it a spelling mistake or a clever play on words? She was someone to aspire to. Solving crime seemed a better prospect than the endless mystery of of how many “M”s in tomorrow.
This approach has got me into big trouble. It’s got me into trouble because the apparent contradiction of being able to read without being able to see what is written on the page is a belief too far for most people. It’s got me into trouble because these days I don’t even bother to attempt to write text messages. I dictate them and then I read them back at break neck speed. A knock knock joke turned itself into an unintended expression of romantic intent. An offer to cook supper became an aggressive carnal overture. Is it luck that my friends assume it’s a typo?
If I haven’t seen the word in its component parts, and even if I have, but have forgotten, then much of the new language of the digital world is pure guess work. As I’m writing, I make a mental note to look it up later but somehow it gets forgotten in the detail of a good story.
The spellchecker is my friend, but even friends can misunderstand your intentions or let you down. An explanation of relative values turned me from Joes “niece” to Joe’s “nice”. It turned Joe from my “uncle” to my “ankle”. Twisted ay!
I suspect that Peter and Jane have long since met a sticky end. Biff, Chip and Kipper are oh so dull by comparison and are much more likely to suffer death from social pho par than from life’s real adventures. I’d rather wire a plug.
An old family friend left a message on my answer machine that went something along the lines of; ” I’ve been to look at your old school…it really is a super retirement complex now … they have everything there…you wouldn’t have to worry about not being able to see….they’ll look after you….I’ve given your number to the sales office and Vicki is going to call you…I’ve told her you can’t see much…there will be lots of people who have problems like yours so you won’t be alone…they even have a mini bus if you wanted to go to the town… honestly everything is there…I don’t think you’d ever need to leave….I’m 86 and it wouldn’t do for me but you’re 55 and I thought it would be perfect for you.”
As my jaw slumped, a tightening knot in my stomach reminded me that life is short. It was 10am and although I had been awake since 5am, because I am 55 now, I was still in bed. I had better get up.
I’ve run a business, raised the Fabulous Son, travelled, run a house, have a social life and friends. I am still actively considering how to change the world and am far from ready to go and live in a retirement complex because my sight is rubbish. What is it then, that makes Old Family Friend think that I am ready to spend the the rest of my life in an institution?
I cannot help but think it is the same thing that made my friend Bless Your Heart (known by this handle because she is always saying it) declare that the growth of cataracts would mean I’d have to stop working. Come to think of it, she’s been telling me about the things I won’t be able to do for the last forty years. By what wisdom does she know this and yet get it repeatedly wrong? I suspect it’s the same attitude that made her snap up a bargain commode while she was still in her forties.
They both see the limitations of sight loss and don’t take into account the complexities and resilience of what it takes to live a good life.
Some people are just constituted with a bunker mentality and some of us are happy to take our chances under the sun. Most of us struggle to integrate the contradictions of an apparently limiting set of circumstances with no imposed self limits. I have no such difficulty.
What’s the critical difference in thinking between those of us who are prepared for the blistering heat and those who bunker down?
“Confidence” is the cry I hear, but it’s not that. Confidence is only a question of faith. Faith has no basis in skill or capability or knowledge. It’s easily shaken. “Resilience” is the common factor in leading the best life possible. It’s the art of developing enough inner resources to cope with, rise to and deal with the inevitable problems, knock backs, challenges and set backs that face us all and which visually impaired people face many fold over.
Do we build enough resilience in our young blind and partially sighted or are we still focussed on confidence? Is having everything at your fingertips, and never even having to board the mini bus the best way to live, or should I keep going until my brain and my knees give out?
Vicki never did call, but a brochure arrived. I put it in an envelope with an anonymous typed note to an old school friend. Life is short. We had better life it to the full if we are not to end up where we started.
Sometimes I feel like a dysfunctional travel correspondent. My tales always seem to involve the extraordinary. I’ve been abandoned on aeroplanes, been refused assistance at train stations and once threatened with arrest for trying to buy a ticket at journeys end because I couldn’t operate the ticket machine at the start of my journey. My reply: “Fine, while you’re calling the police I’ll call the Daily Mail”.
My tactic at railway stations is to go to the ticket office and if the queue is likely to take longer than fifteen minutes look for a customer service rep to operate the ticket machine for me. It’s not failsafe.
I did this at Liverpool Street station and ended up with a ticket that cost more than double the usual cost. Time was marching on so other than joining the queue, that I probably didn’t have enough water to sustain me through, I’d have to swallow the cost and get on the train.
Two revenue inspectors sat next to me so I quizzed them: The ticket machine was not set up to sell me the ticket I needed and the only way to avoid the inflated cost was to go to the ticket office and queue, but if I went to the ticket office at Shenfield I could change the ticket.
As we filled in the forms, did the money exchange, got the contactless payment to work, I got a text from the friend who was picking me up. “What are you doing in there?” “I’ve been driving round the block waiting for you.” The Rolls Canardly (a vehicle that rolls down hills and can hardly get up them) has the turning circle of a small bus. She was not happy.
Essex is a much under rated county but road works took us to parts I have not been to before. By the time we sat down to breakfast there were people ordering lunch.
The friend and I can chat. By the time I set out for home it had to go smoothly because the Flat Mate was doing supper which meant I needed to buy the supper and prepare it because that is the deal when the Flat Mate does supper. She’s not one for cooking. I was now running late.
On the jubilee line, the announcement system wasn’t working so I asked the man next to me if he could tell me where we were at the next station. “No problem,” he said. “Bermondsey”. I unfolded my cane in readiness for London Bridge.
As I got to the door a man, slightly the worse for ware, said, “is there anything I can do to help you?” then he planted his hand on my left breast. “No.” Pace was now the order of the day.
As I got to the stairs he asked me again. Was he following me? “No,” I said. At the escalator he said, “Are you sure there is nothing I can do for you?” “No,” I said and got on the escalator. “You really are a very independent little thing,” he said and made a clicking sound with his tongue against the roof of his mouth before vanishing.
A ticketing system that works has been promised for years and still hasn’t materialised. Helpful travellers can save you from missing your stop. Nothing could save me from a drunken touch up. Would it have happened if I was not using my cane?
There is something cringingly uncomfortable about making your mistakes in public: I have a long and distinguished experience of being the subject of public amusement. It’s not a comfortable place to be. Not looking or behaving like other people’s assumptions, of how I should look or behave, has landed me in some testing situations.
Getting off a bus one day, the door opened next to a concrete bollard that was invisible against the pavement. The bus driver didn’t believe I had a sight impairment so thought he would put his theory to the test with a spot of strategic parking. Pivotting on a bollard is surprisingly painful. It’s also extremely funny to the casual onlooker in a kind of slapstick way. The queue of people waiting to get on the bus couldn’t help themselves. They laughed until they cried while I dangled over the top of the bollard with a pain in my stomach like I’d just been punched.
On a trip to the cinema I elected to cross at the zebra crossing just outside the cinema. When I got there a van was parked on the crossing. I asked the driver to move his van. The gist of what he said was that he would not. I explained the problem and asked him if he would give me a hand crossing the road. The gist of what he said next was that he would not. The gist of what I said cannot be repeated before I walked back down the road only to find myself back at the crossing, on the other side of the road and the van gone.
A car pulled up and sat stubbornly on the crossing. The traffic wasn’t moving. I walked round the back of the car. What I didn’t know was that it was pulling a trailer. I discovered this hidden gem because my right knee, then my left knee, got caught on the tow rope and over I went. The woops and cheers, honking and pointing demanded nothing less than a bow and two fingers to the driver.
Clapham High Street has a wide selection of crossing points. They are loved by pedestrians and cyclists alike. If you are crossing the road and estimate that you have only seconds to go before the lights change and the traffic recommences its merciless progression, the last thing you want is to find yourself knocked off your feet by a cyclist taking the opportunity to nip to the pavement on the other side of the road or dodge the waiting traffic and plough on regardless of pedestrians. In Waterloo Road, cyclists have started travelling in packs across crossings.
A despatch rider who stopped me on a zebra crossing to ask me the way. Cane in hand I explained that I might not be the best person to ask on account of not seeing much, but I’d have a go if he was willing to take a chance. The gist of what he said was that he wondered if I was trying to be funny. The gist of what I said was “No”. The gist of what he said was that I should not mock the blind. Very politely I explained the situation. He said, “I’m an idiot,” and rode off.
Going across a crossing with a friend of mine who is a long cane user, a man walked up the entire length of my friend’s cane until they were nose to nose. The gist of what what the man said cannot be repeated but was along the lines of “people like you should not be out in public”. An unwitting flick of the wrist silenced the man. The gist of what my friend said was “people like that should not be out in public.”
I had lunch with a friend in an Italian place in Oxford Circus. We ate a good lunch and laughed a lot. As my friend got up to leave he asked me if I needed a hand with anything before he left. I didn’t but would guard his goods while he nipped to the gents. Needless to say, his absence made me reflect on parental advice. “Always go before you leave”.
Signage can be a challenge for anyone faced with the decision about which door to pick. I can never remember if the triangle points up for a woman or what the symbol is for male or female. Then there are the signs that are in relief and the same colour as the door. How do you know if you are about to enter into another country?
For any woman who has ever been caught short, and found themselves compelled to make a dash for the only available loo, there is one sure way to know if you are in the right place. The sniff test.
Undeterred by not being able to read the signs and work out which was the men’s and which the women’s loo, I opened both doors and sniffed. Then I plumped for familiar territory, where I sat, enthroned, handbag at my feet. I was having a moment of quiet reflection when I heard the door open and a pair of size tens stopped in front of my cubicle. There was only a handbag between our feet. Someone had a made a mistake.
All I had to do was sit tight, handbag on lap, and wait for the man to leave. The door opened and what appeared to be a coach load of men tripped past. No matter. My plan was still a good one. All I had to do was wait for them to leave. I waited. I waited some more and while I waited I would treat this as a fly on the wall experience and would emerge the wiser for what happened in the gents.
What does not happen in the gents is much in the way of hand dryer action.
I waited some more, more men. Plan “B” was called for if I was not to spend the rest of the afternoon trapped in the loo. Moments like this are exactly what the white cane is for. I would wait for the sound of silence and then emerge, wash my hands and leave with my dignity, and my cane, in tact.
To burst forth onto an unsuspecting public is not an easy thing to do under these circumstance. It’s not like Cilla Black shouting “surprise surprise”. The longer I remained concealed the more shocking the reveal.
After what felt like an eternity the moment arrived. I opened the door and looking neither left nor right, and with nothing but an educated guess as to where the basins were, I emerged and guessed right. I washed my hands, went to the dryer and realised that I was not alone.
It’s important, in these moments, not to flinch from the inevitable astonishment of others. Never apologise. It was hardly my fault that I found myself in a space that was the preserve of men and had failed the sniff test.
I hope I put all those men to shame with my ritual hand wash. I don’t mind that they probably heard the sound of running when the door shut behind me.
As the world gets more complicated and the arrival of new signs to indicate a new order in the use of public loos is upon us, spare a thought for the confusion of those of us who have enough trouble making sense of the old signs.
The web is awash with suppliers of easy to read LARGE signs and #RNIB have lots of good advice.
The infamous man drawer, that drawer in the kitchen which men claim for themselves as the place to store spent batteries and old light bulbs, is not the sole preserve of men. Michael McIntyre is not the only one who can order a Chinese takeaway on a Nokia 3210 and pay for it in currency that is no longer in circulation. If ever there is an exhibition I want to see, that’s free to Blue Peter badge holders, I know I have one. It is simply a matter of finding it.
I am a firm believer in the woman drawer. In mine, are a number of antique spot concealers, various plastic keys for opening gas meter cupboards I cannot see, and no longer need to, because I have a SMART meter. There are also a selection of money off vouchers, that I also cannot read, but imagine have long expired.
The challenge with the woman drawer is that it is the repository for a number of tiny items that might otherwise become lost. After more than fifteen years of wondering what two small black stick looking things in a plastic bag were, I threw them away. As I heard the bin men set about their work, what they were crystalized in my mind.
Being organised is an essential part of household management if you can’t see much. I depend on a wonderful cleaner, who ensures that I don’t live in a slum. In the early days she would re-tune the radio to Christian radio and I’d have to wait for someone, anyone, to re-establish radio four as the dominant voice on news and views.
Opportunities for reminding the lovely cleaner, that things must be returned to the place, where she found them, have diminished since she discovered the antidote to the ban on Christian radio. She is now plugged into the radio app on her phone and listens to uplifting talks about faith and practice while she cleans.
The order on my dressing table is delicately balanced. One slight of hand and I’m stuffed. Gloss and Shine cannot be substituted with body lotion. Buzuka Verruca would do nothing for the bags under my eyes. Pumping Jelly Hair Gel cannot pass for After Sun.
It does not matter how many times I make the plea to those involved in slum prevention, or to those I have lived with, or those just passing through. Everything has its place. If you leave your coffee cup on the floor I will tread on it and grind the contents into the carpet. This is one of the many reasons I keep the carpet cleaners number in the woman drawer. I just need to find it.
When the Uncles come to stay they always reorder my fridge because they say my fridge scheme is illogical. Then they encase everything in carrier bags, making the fridge incomprehensible. The bathroom becomes another country. No one wants to find themselves brushing their teeth with shampoo.
The last preserve of chaos in my house, is the Woman drawer. A late night hunt for things to eat, led me, in desperation, to rummage through the piles of useful cards, old makeup and mysterious plastic bags, to a eureka moment. Joy was short lived. The last time I tasted anything like this, the Brother and I were pretending to be dogs in the boot of the family Hilman Hunter. I found the dog treats. I do not know what the Son’s Jack Russell is making all the fuss about.
Perhaps I will put my Nokia 3210 on e-bay and see if there are any takers. I just need to remember where I have put the charger cable. It’s not in the drawer where I left it.
As if it’s not enough to be shouted at by people, who in the face of some obvious revelation feel the need to defend themselves by yelling, I now find myself being challenged by machines that speak.
A few years ago I invested in a speaking alarm clock. It’s a small plastic box that takes an age to set. Once done, it remains silent just long enough for sleep to begin to wrap its folds around me before bursting into life and shouting the date, day of the week, time, but not the time for which I have set my alarm. I cannot help but let doubt get the better of me, roll over and reset it just in case I have made a mistake and left the gas on. Then I go through the entire routine of beating the pillow into submission before the clock starts shouting at me again.
Two years ago the Sister bought me Alexa for Christmas. It, (I cannot bring myself to gender it and describe it as ‘she”) has been squatting on top of my kitchen radio gathering dust ever since. A friend of mine, put her mind to making Alexa work for it’s place in my household.
She began by loading the app, to operate Alexa, onto my phone. The accessibility feature didn’t work and so all efforts to give me a tutorial were lost. Next she tried to make Alexa operate my SMART TV. It turns out that my SMART YV is not as SMART as advertised and is one of a tiny number in the range that does not support Alexa. This is a pity as I can see that using voice activation to operate the TV would be a definite upgrade.
Alexa has now returned to its spot in the kitchen from where it can be instructed to turn the radio on and off, which seems pointless to me. Not one to give up and ever keen to demonstrate the range of Alexa’s ability, my friend decided to skill Alexa to shop. This was a miserable failure culminating in an instruction from the sister to “shop for a boyfriend.” The reply? “I cannot purchase anything that you have not purchased before”.
Nirvana was achieved in the midst of this chaos with the delivery of talking bathroom scales. After the trials of last weeks southern Bulgarian hospitality, I had convinced myself that the previous bathroom scales had broken. How could it be possible to put on so much weight in such a short period of time? The answer. Easily.
The instructions for the speaking bathroom scales must have been written by someone who is double jointed. It is not possible to turn the scales upside down, depress the button that was on the right and is now on the left while simultaneously inserting the batteries. After a bit of improvising I managed a reverse manoeuvre and activated them. Then I stood on them. I stood on them by the open bathroom window while my next door neighbour was outside his back door.
“You weigh,” bellowed the scales, pausing for dramatic effect as if the winner of the Oscar for best lead in a drama was about to be announced, before clearly articulating my excesses through the open window. The scales might just have easily have yelled, “well what did you think would happen if you ate the full range of the fruits of the Black Sea and washed it down with red wine? Idiot”
The bad news is that I no longer believe the previous scales were broken which means I have just added to landfill needlessly and wasted £37. The even worse news is that the neighbour is now privy to something that I maintain a need to know approach to. The good news is that I have now managed to operate the volume control. None of this has stopped me eating.
Wimbledon seems to have come round remarkably soon since the last time that our screens were saturated with incomprehensible grunting and invisible action.
I know there are plenty of blind people who enjoy following sport. I’m not one of them. I prefer to follow writers and poets and the changes in GDP or what interest rates are likely to do. I follow what happens in parliament. I follow politics. Who’s at the top of their game and who’s losing their place in the league. The vicious volleys of BREXIT are just as enthralling, to me, as Wimbledon is to some of my less politically absorbed counterparts.
Question Time is turning into the not to be missed tournament of the summer. I’m devastated its finished until the autumn. At least I understand the terms of engagements and can see how the players play their shots, what was a good rally and what is just plain bad gamesmanship.
In the bad old days before I discovered the sport for me, I had a go at tennis. This was tennis the good old fashioned way, long before blind tennis was invented. Check it out. http://ibta-takei.com/
Growing up, I had regular access to tennis courts. They provided amazing opportunities to get up a bit of speed on a bicycle or a scooter when adults were inside watching Wimbledon on the telly. It was the 70s, a decade that heralded the arrival of the luminous green tennis ball. The adults, in their wisdom, thought that this was an opportunity to normalise me, to turn me into a tennis player and I was up for it.
Protection from the sun was required. A ready solution presented itself in the form of an enormous sombrero in black. If you have ever tried to play tennis in a sombrero you will know that there is a very good reason why Serena Williams does not. Standard issue dark glasses, that I still never go outside without, were next. All this was topped off with a good covering of sun block which is about as comfortable as being wrapped in cling film.
“Serve” I shouted to the friend somewhere over the other side of the net. Back came the instruction to go “left”. Tennis racket aloft I did as I was told and missed. I could not find the ball. “Serve” I shouted again and followed instruction and missed again. Now there were two missing balls.
Undeterred, the friend suggested that I serve. I was not bad. The thwack was followed by another instruction and again I missed. Green balls were not doing it for me. They had not proved to be the miracle on my path to normalisation that everyone had hoped for. But now there was a strange swooshing in my head. It did not seem to matter which way I moved. It would not stop.
As we chucked in the towel on tennis and decided to turn our attention to finding other distractions, the swooshing only became more irritating. By the time we were told to come in for lunch I had begun to think there was now something seriously up with me. At least it was cool inside and off came the sombrero and the mystery of the tennis balls revealed itself. I had spent the best part of the morning with tennis balls rolling around the sombrero and consequently round my head.
I admire Serena Williams, not least for her breakout success and for her triumph over her pelvic floor, but I just don’t get tennis. Last night a friend invited to watch Wimbledon on her tiny telly. Why? I have no idea. I’d rather stay at home and listen to political jousting on the radio. Much more fun.
I am so wimble done.
After a considerable amount of effort to plan a self guided walking tour, of revered places of worship, in Borgas, Wanda (that’s google maps to the uninitiated) and I set out.
Tripping out of the hotel Cheap and Noisy, over an invisible step into four lanes of moving traffic, Wanda told me to turn left and then turn into the traffic. What I did not know, and Wanda did not tell me, was that I was standing next to a pedestrian crossing. It must have been bemusing to drivers that, cane in hand, I looked left and right and left again, (I’m in Borgas now) and sallied forth, but not at the crossing point.
Wanda instructed me to turn right into … and here she fell silent. I don’t know why, because she is perfectly used to bossing me about in Bulgarian. It didn’t stop here. Wanda was silent on all street names, leaving me to draw my own conclusions. Not once on our four kilometre walk, to visit St. Ivan Rilski Cathedral, did Wanda tell me she was recalculating the route. She never told me to make a ‘U’ turn whenever possible. Meanwhile I got a little message from an app, telling me that I would not get any more notifications about goodness knows what, while I was driving.
Finding myself walking further and further from the city centre, I still had not begun to suspect that Wanda may have led me to wander off in entirely the wrong direction. I passed the bus terminus and here Wanda instructed me to turn right and with just a hint of smugness in her electronic tones, informed me that in three hundred meters I should have reached my destination.
The cycle track that I was now walking along next to the six lanes of fizzing traffic, showed little promise of the delights that awaited me. In two hundred meters, excitement got the better of me and magnification was called for. It was out with the spy glass. Surely a cathedral would be easy enough to spot. Apparently not. I pressed on. Just as I was about to give up Wanda announced that I had arrived at my destination and up popped a little picture of a beautifully proportioned cathedral on my telephone.
What I had arrived at was an enormous roundabout with an outsized pedestrian flyover complete with a system of lifts for anyone who could not manage considerable number of stairs. Despite the large sign that read “sewer control ends here”, I crossed in the expectation that delight was just beyond the trees ahead of me. What lay beyond the tress was more traffic. Wanda was now screaming at me “You have reached your destination”. A passing pedestrian informed me that my destination was about four kilometres back the way I had come.
All was not lost, I still had three more sites to visit and so I decided to head to number two. This turned out to be back up the cycle track, past the bus terminus and what smelt suspiciously like the end of sewer control as we know it. My luck had changed. In fact my luck was in.
Orthodox liturgical chanting may not be everyone’s cup of tea. For those who love it, it reaches down into the depths of your emotions, grabs your guts, and wraps itself around your senses. For an hour, the choir sang and the priest chanted and wandered in an out of doors that took him behind a huge bank of icon screen painting, from behind which his booming tenor voice erupted, and from where a strange flicker of light emerged.
After the delights of the choral voices, I took a stroll round the church, spy glass in hand, to check out the icons. Turned out I got to see more than I bargained for. As the priest came out to greet his flock, one of the icon covered panelled doors swung open behind him. I was strategically positioned for the answer to one of the great mysteries of the last hour. What had the priest been doing behind screen and what was that flickering light?
The strange flicker was a television, with the beautiful game in full swing. It was the World Cup after all.
A long long time ago when God was a boy and before I had teeth, I can remember sitting on the counter in the green grocers while he weighed out sugar to be bagged up in a heavy duty blue bag sealed shut with tape. Now that I have teeth and want to preserve them, I have stopped buying sugar. The flatmate and I have been the proud owners of the same bag of sugar for five years.
In the intervening years, not only has dentistry come a long way but shopping has progressed too. Or has it?
The advent of self service has meant that I have accidentally invested in more tins of red pepper than anyone could reasonably be expected to eat in a lifetime. Its always in the mistaken belief they are tomatoes. While the words “pepper” and “tomato” may have obvious differences to those who can see a reasonable amount, it all looks the same to me.
With the rise of the superstore comes super confusion. No good relying on being able to read the signs about what lurks in each isle if you can’t see where the signs are in the first place. The number of miles travelled in search of the dried chick peas has served me well. Other people have the fit bit. I have the quest for marmite. When the search for oats ends with dog food, (some may say that comes to the same thing in the end), the best laid of culinary plans are abandoned.
One thing you can depend upon in the mega store, is that there are always crisps and chocolate at the end of the slog up and down rows of mysterious assorted coloured blobs. While I can resist the sugar, the salt is seductive and pairs oh so well with the wine on the sideboard in my kitchen. This too turned out to be a disappointment as I poured myself a glass of olive oil.
In the supermarket game of blind It’s A Knock Out, the arrival of the self service till has created a opportunity for me to stand about looking gormlus while an invisible youth waves at me as if directing the idiot driver of a large car into a small parking space. “Next Customer,” he bellows. I’ve got so good at recognising this tone of exasperation that I now know it’s my cue to step forward and find someone to help. I’ve long since given up worrying that I’m in a queue for something that I cannot do.
On the signal of infuriated shouting, I step forward and head for the voice. Then, I say “Please could you help me as I can’t see to operate the machine?” they usually say “No Problem, ” and regardless of whether or not my cane is in my hand, “just follow the instructions on the screen”. Then I explain myself again and sometimes help is delivered with great good grace and sometimes its delivered with contempt.
I have to confess that without the benefit of knowing what each stage of paying by this method looks like, I cannot help but wonder about some of the commands shoppers are instructed to abide by. I thought a “bagging area” was the slump in the fabric on the backside of a much loved pair of trousers. I cannot help but fantasise that this reference is an instruction to stuff your shopping down your trousers and leg it.
The self service till has tripled the number of times I need to give an account of my inability to do something while out shopping. It is one of the means by which my shopping experience is hobbled.
This is why I buy my fruit and veg from a nice man called Bill with a pair of lungs like bellows. His come hither cries always lure me to spend more on celeriac than I intended and if I pile the cash in my hand he works it out for me and calls me “Darling” into the bargain. He’s also been known to instruct me to “Open your gob,” so he can pop a grape inside. I know I could do it for myself but life cannot get much better than being fed grapes in public by a nice man.
A nice woman came to my house to begin the process of long cane training. I was tense. She introduced herself with a name that sounded just like the Bulgarian word for “it’s not important.”. The flatmate and I would have thrown each other a look. We both thought the same thing. “Kak?” which means something altogether different in English than Bulgarian and it’s not “What?”.
My nice mobility trainer and I set off down the road. The purpose of this jaunt was for her to observe me, out and about, so that we could make a plan of action, if action were needed.
I consider my pavement technique to be pretty good but would you believe it, no sooner was I out of the front door than me, an extendable dog lead, a Chihuahua and a very angry neighbour got into a tangle. The angry neighbour started shouting and I apologised. My nice trainer whispered in my ear “don’t be sorry.” I realised that it was easier to be sorry than to explain. How confusing is that?
Dusting ourselves down, we set off again. Some of the things that I thought were one thing turned out to be another. The wheelchair kerb access that I thought had been lovingly dolloped out, with a trowel, up and down the High Street, often don’t follow the guidance, and are just as likely to tip a wheelchair user out as they are to trip me up. The exit point from Sainsbury’s car park is in fact the entry point. The top speed for a mobility scooter on a pavement is 4mph and not “get out of my way I’m on my scooter”. Pressing buttons at traffic lights is largely pointless as most work on a cycle that pedestrians are powerless to influence. If you gag on an overhanging branch that ends up in your mouth, which it is likely in my case because I’m prone to having my mouth open a lot as I like talking, it’s acceptable to spit.
My nice trainer taught me that having a cane in my bag is a start. Just because I don’t use it all the time, does not mean I am a fake. Sometimes it’s useful and sometimes it’s not. Sometime I can’t face the prospect of the cane in my hand, sometimes I crave it. Lots of people who can’t see much swither in their use of the cane. I find that the comfort of knowing its in my bag means I never leave home without it.
The cane does not make everything clear. It brings it’s own confusions. A distant cry, from the far end of a tube carriage of “Do you want to sit here?” could be directed at anyone. I usually ignore this because who knows where “here” is and who knows who the question is directed at. What if you get mistaken for a terrorist and get tazered because some trigger happy policeman thought it was a gun? Confusing but true.
See: Blind man Tasered by armed police who thought his walking stick was …
After an hour my nice trainer and I stopped for a coffee. She suggested I take my cane out of my bag and leave it on the counter in front of me. “You’ll see why,” she said. When the bill came the man behind the counter talked me through the card payment. I didn’t need to explain or apologise. It was all encoded on that folded up cane on the counter.
The woman who said she was of no importance, turned out to be a rather important person in my life. She helped me understand I can be full of inconsistencies and contradictions in the way I navigate the world, and a pair of secateurs in the handbag can deal with overhanging hazards and leave me free to keep jabbering. I need never apologise for it.
The Blood Bank, where I bank, is keen on inviting people in to meet their Relationship Manager. These are nearly always people who are in training and supervised by those who are licenced to advice on products that they can not advise on. These supervisors work like close protection officers.
The Blood Bank brings out the worst in me. The twenty or so Relationship Managers, I have had over the years, activate a desire in me to give oxygen to the worst excesses of my imagination. No matter how provoked I am by compulsory videos on what the consequences will be if I commit fraud, during a conversation I never wanted, I have to remember that reducing the youth before me to tears, will make matters worse for everyone.
Clare was my favourite Relationship Manager. She was tenacious. After many phone calls I succumbed and agreed to meet her to review my banking needs, but on the strict proviso she would not try to sell me anything. Her opening salvo was to read from a prepared script about the product range she would now set out for me. My protests were met with a demand that I listen. She moved on to home insurance.
Set out on the screen were the options which she now needed me to look at. I explained that I could not see the screen. “Well how was I to know?” she said. “I mean, what exactly can you see?”
“I’m registered blind. It says that on your system,” I spat.
“Yeah, well, that could mean anything. I don’t know. I’m not an optician. I need you to look at the screen.”
“Well, I’m not going to,” I said. “There’s no point.” I could feel myself flushing pink and seething.
There was a moments silence and then she spoke very slowly, supporting what she said with exaggerated gestures towards herself, me and the computer so that the half wit in front of her would be left in no doubt. “I need you to read the information that I am telling you yeah.”
“No,” I said and got up and left.
The Blood Bank allegedly wrote to me to say that overdraft charges were going up. They can’t tell me when as its not on their system. It might have been one of those occasions they wrote to me in braille or small print, neither of which I read. This was a job for the Relationship Manager.
Rebecca explained the product range she would talk to me about and I said I just wanted to deal with bank charges. She said she couldn’t do anything about that but had to play me a video. I said I wouldn’t be able to watch it. She said that I should listen. She said this was about the regulatory framework. It was actually about how the bank would use my information. The regulator was never mentioned. She moved on to credit cards. I threw up my hands and felt myself turn pink and start seething again.
We finally settled on a savings account upgrade that would give me an extra 0.15% a year. I estimate this was probably the best mornings suffering I have ever been through for an £3.50. Although this might turn out to be more “because some people think it is,” according to Rebecca.
After 25 years of banking with The Blood Bank; they still can’t get my name right, seem to think sight impairment is a matter of stupidity to the point that they once suggested I ask a grown up to help me operate the cash machine, and continue to fox me with communications I cannot read.
My Relationship Managers always says how pleased they are to meet me and how they can “only apologise” for any misunderstanding. I always end up apologising for my fury and they always forgive me. Funnily enough, I never meet them twice.
Each time I’ve gone to vote, I ask where the large print ballot paper is that every polling station is obliged to display by law. It’s usually pinned on a wall which means that just about anyone who needs to read large print won’t be able to get near enough to read it. Polling station staff are obliging and generally proffer a close up look. I have no qualms about disconnecting the large ballot paper from the wall.
All blind and partially sighted people are supposed to be able to exercise their right to vote in private, polling station staff are not backward in coming forward to make this happen. I’ve been repeatedly invited to make use of the publicly available magnifying glass that is next to useless for anyone with a severe sight impairment.
“Off the shelf” magnifiers are designed for the majority of people who aren’t blind or partially sighted. I know this because my optician told me so. I also know this because every time one of friends finds themselves bereaved by the loss of a parent, I am bequeathed the magnification detritus of the much loved dead relative who proudly managed to maintain a driving licence until the bitter end.
Every polling station is also supposed to have a tactile overlay that goes over the ballot paper so that blind people can put their “X” in the right spot. It’s supposed to enable privacy in the polling booth. One blind voter reported the polling station officer being so close to him that he could feel her breath. It’s also notoriously prone to fail and likely to lead to a spoiled ballot. There’s a cracking film about how this doesn’t work. It’s right up there with the Cheap Flights. Here’s the Link
If you are blind you can vote by proxy. I can’t think of anything worse than giving my vote to someone else to cast for me. What if they made a mistake?
I tried the postal vote. Free to use my own made to measure magnification it worked at a functional level. I cast my vote in the European election by post and then spent the day fretting that it might have got lost in the post.
There is no getting away from it. I like the ritual of the polling station and seeing all those nice, and not so nice, folk sitting on picnic chairs in the car park asking me if I would mind telling them how I voted. I don’t mind a bit because by that point anyone who happened to be milling around the voting booth knows how I voted because I have already told the polling station staff who I wanted to vote for because that’s the surest way to make sure I’ve put my “X” in the right place.
When I go to cast my vote, I never bother with the privacy of drawing the miserable curtain so that I can confer with staff in a whisper. It seems unnatural to have four legs poking out from behind the curtain. I’m not a bashful type but who knows what people might think.
Why not have telephone voting or voting on line? While I would miss the rituals of the polling station there are plenty who wouldn’t. It’s controversial I know. With many Brits choosing not to vote, embracing the tools that so many of us use every day has got to be worth a try if voting is not to become a die hard activity. After all, the ballot was once a controversial innovation.
Blind and partially sighted people are less likely to vote than their sighted peers. Like so many things that might have had their origins in solutions for people who can’t see, I bet telephone and on line voting would go a fair way to getting the voter numbers up amongst the population in general, let alone for those of us who find it a challenge to vote.
A friend of mine called me up at 8.30 in a Sunday morning. He said that he was parked outside my house and would like to invite himself to breakfast. His car was packed to the gunnels with old garden machinery he had hoped to car boot. It was raining and blowing a gale so he gave up and opted for my house.
Together with his hairy retriever puppy and not so hairy son, we ate breakfast, and spent the rest of the morning chatting. Finally, they stood up to leave because they now needed to go home to unpack the enormous quantity of old tools from his car and put them back in the shed. My friends’ son asked me, “Hey, would you like a chain saw or a band saw?” I said it was a kind offer but declined. “There’s nothing wrong with them and you could cut your own wood.” My friend just laughed.
I gave up any garden implement, sharper that a trowel, some time ago. For years I chopped my own wood with a small axe purchased especially for the purpose. Then came the fated day that the son came home and spotted me in the act with the axe.
He thought, that considering my poor track record with kitchen knives, an axe was an amputation waiting to happen. He pointed out that he had never seen anyone chop wood by calculating each swing by touch. He did not consider this a reliable method of ensuring that the next blow was not likely to sever a limb. I thought this approach was a perfectly rationale adaptation. I had no intention of chopping off my left hand.
The upshot of this was that the son took over wood responsibilities and I have never managed to find that axe, even though I suspect he did not take it with him when he left home.
For years I pruned my hedge with an electric hedge trimmer. I did this by measuring the amount of hedge I wanted to lose and then giving it my best guess. I only ever had two mishaps, slicing through the cable, but that’s what the safety mechanism is for.
I have to say that I felt rather proud of the results. The hedge looked just fine to me, but after many years of this routine, my neighbour came home to find me up a step ladder hard at work with the hedge trimmer. He made no bones about my lack of fitness to handle heavy machinery.
I confess outrage at such forthright criticism and complained to my other neighbour about this unjustified assault on my handy work. She was far from sympathetic. “Alleluia. Finally, you wont’ have a hedge that looks like bad topiary.” I pulled a face. “It’s completely wonky.” She said. Obviously I disagree.
So, to be offered a band saw and and chain saw all in one morning was tempting. I had a fleeting vision: I am revving up the chain saw and lowering my visor in preparation for chopping up a large tree trunk that I heroically dragged home and that I will be burning before the day is out. Instead, I am resigned to paying my ninety pounds for a load of winter logs that are delivered and neatly stacked.
The urge for machinery has not quite subsided and I have been on line looking at log splitters. This seems to offer the optimum outcome in helping to support a myth of heavy endeavour, I feel, is required in making a fire. It has the added advantage of being a near silent vice that I can exercise in the privacy of my garden without alerting the neighbours.
Last Saturday I got home to find the milk was off and the cheese I thought might last the course of my absence, was now cultivating penicillin. There was nothing for it but to head to the market on a dreary afternoon when I’d much prefer to have been listening to my book in front of the fire.
Luck, it seemed, was on my side. Just as I reached the bus stop I heard the bus creeping up behind me so I took advantage of its comforts and climbed aboard. As soon as I got off the bus I went to buy tea. Then my luck turned.
As I came out of the tea shop I was conscious of a small woman in an oversized khaki coat with a woolly hat pulled down low. I went to the next shop and bought Easter eggs. There she was again, silently watching as the contents of my purse exploded onto the unsuspecting cashier.
Next I went to the charity shop because I have a sort of professional addiction to charity shops. I made my slow progression round the shop, nose to label so to speak and went to leave. There she was again. This time I had to squeeze past her. She made room for me, lifting the handbag she was looking at, oh so considerately to her shoulder, so that I could squeeze past.
I have to give her points for her artistry: Her distraction technique was simple and kept my focus on the shoulder height bag action she was putting on for my benefit. I never felt a thing. She relieved me of my credit cards and cash with style, bowed and smiled as she did so. I actually thanked her. Then she evaporated into thin air.
It was all so obvious but I hadn’t wanted to believe it as it was happening. Instinct is a powerful thing. Sight is not the only tool at your disposal. Just because you are paranoid that you are being followed, doesn’t mean that you are not. I’m kicking myself.
What I should have done was to stand in the street and yell as loudly as possible that a small woman in an oversized khaki coat (all the better to dress in layers of stolen clothes), had just robbed me. I was so surprised at what had just happened that at the moment a really good bellow was called for, I was rendered silent.
The shop manager told me that street gangs of thieves love charity shops. She said that they target and follow older and vulnerable people, (these are her words not mine). The blind truth is that I probably was targeted because of the advantage steeling from someone who can’t see much gives a thief.
The Police were sympathetic enough, but within minutes of filing the report and being issued a crime number, I received an email to say that they would not be investigating. I wrote to them to say that I believe I was targeted because I have a sight impairment and that I would ask them to reconsider their decision. A day elapsed. Silence. So, I sought out the local Police senior who agreed it’s worth looking at the evidence.
It turns out there is quite a bit of evidence. I know this because it is me that has gathered some of it. It is spread out across hundreds of miles. That means different Police forces co-ordinating their efforts which is a challenge. The clock ticks. CCTV evidence is lost. The trail goes cold. Case closed.
Arrest rates for crimes against disabled people don’t reflect peoples experience. There are no extra Police resources and the cycle continues.
If you are blind or partially sighted you are more likely to be a victim of crime. That might be opportunistic crime and it might be hate fuelled crime. Sorry to say, I know what it’s like to be on the receiving end of both of these.
If you believe you have been on the wrong end of a crime because of a disability, the Police have a duty to investigate. They know this. It’s their job. It shouldn’t be my job to point this out to them.
When I first started travelling to Sofia I used to fly Air Bulgaria from Gatwick. Once, having answered the call for those needing assistance to come forward now, I stepped forward and did not get quite the help I expected. What I got was a good telling off because the Air Bulgaria official thought “You are a liar. There is nothing wrong with you. Sit down immediately”. Passengers were boarded. The gate was closed and the official departed. I was abandoned, so I made the walk of shame to find the plane alone, being rescued by a man in ear muffs who, spotting the cane, got the general idea that all was not well on the old eyesight front.
Many years ago I realised that, if I was to live into old age, the white cane, was essential in airports. It came about because a tried and tested technique of shoulder serving a likely looking passenger failed me. I found myself running from the terminal to the plane, in heavy rain late at night at Belfast airport. I was effectively running freestyle towards the runway. A man with ping pong bats intercepted me and shouted “Are you blind?” As he marched me back towards the terminal, I heard myself say, “No, I just can’t see the plane.”
I was in Heathrow not so long ago. My British trained escort came to collect me and I said I’d like to swing by the ladies loo en route to the gate. Well that did it. “Oh My God,” he yelled. “She gotta go toilet.” I scratched my head.
“I should say that a bit louder if I were you,” I said. “ I don’t think everyone quite heard you.”
He heaved in his breath and stuck out his chest. “She gotta go toilet.” He really gave it some welly.
“It’s Ok. I can manage to pass water unaided and I can wipe my own bottom.”
Up went the shoulder and out came the bellowing sound of relief. “It’s OK. She can do toilet on her own,” and off we set.
Luton’s not much better. Airlines run up penalties there because they spend so long on the tarmac waiting for passenger assistance. It makes no odds when or how assistance is booked, a culture of “blame the passenger” prevails. Bus loads of cross travellers have twitched in passive aggression as security demands no one can board until I have been removed from the plane. That can regularly take up to and hour and a half.
On a blistering summer day, after a very tedious wait and plane crew change at Luton, assistance arrived and demanded to know,” Yeah, you got a Romeo?”
“Do you mean this nice lady sitting here?”
“Walker? Non walker?”
I couldn’t help myself. “it might be easier if you talked to me since I’m right here.”
“I’ll talk to you if I need to,” was the surly reply.
I was once instructed to get into a wheelchair. “It’ll be easier,”
“For whom” I asked?
These days Bulgarian Airport assistance is the best I have encountered. It far outstrips the British experience. I am treated with courtesy and respect. I am not kept waiting and everyone is polite. No one shouts at me or about me. Varna airport gets my vote for disabled traveller assistance. I love it.
We hear so much criticism about all those nasty foreigners importing their nasty foreign ways, but British airports could learn a thing or two from our Bulgarian cousins, about how to treat blind and disabled travellers.
Everyone should clear out things they have not worn or read or paid any heed to for more than a decade. It’s oh so easy to hang on to things because they evoke the feelings of another time or an event. There comes a point though, when the original moment has long passed and the feelings they evoke are the feelings you had last time you considered showing them the door.
There is no particular reason why I should have hung on to my O’Level biology notes for more than thirty years. They evoke no other feelings beyond the embaressment I felt, as me and the remaining members of my all male year group, learnt about reproduction. This may have possibly been surpassed by the terror of a bucket full of earth worms being handed round for dissection. The chief architect of the worm terror incident knows who he is. The notes were for the bin.
Along with yellowing biology notes were a large pile of books on British birds, a legacy from my Uncle who was a keen twitcher. I kept them in a vain attempt to teach myself a bit about birds because I have never seen a bird and have always been curious. It never happened.
The limit of my bird knowledge is culinary. I know how to take a chicken apart and where bones and fat are located. Pheasants on the other hand are a little bit more complicated. My Father used to kill them, gut them and put them in the post to me. This came to an abrupt end when I went to collect my pheasant from the post office. There was a small mishap as the package was handed across the counter. A trail of blood was left in its wake. Her Majesty’s Royal Mail takes a dim view on packages that leak blood and gave me a stiff talking to about sending body parts through the post.
I doubt that gutting a pheasant is something that I could achieve without the gift of rather more visual acuity than I have, so I limit myself to the breast meat. To remove this, sight is not required, merely a sharp knife. My experience is that you need a feel for what you are doing. What goes on in the privacy of my kitchen though, has not always resulted in the best of outcomes in public.
Outside the pheasant enclosure at London Zoo, the son, who was strapped into his pram at the time, leant forward and pointed and exclaimed loudly, “Oh look Mummy, Pheasant. Delicious.” I couldn’t tell you where the gaze of the surrounding public fell next or whether looks could have killed, but we beat a hasty retreat.
I once had a cat who was afraid of a huge pigeon that lived in a tree at the end of the garden. She would stand at the kitchen door and mew her despair. I never did see that bird but the cat never failed to signal its presence.
On a trip to Scotland, I spent a day sitting in a hide, from where it was possible to see all kinds of wildlife if you had the sight for it. I have no idea why I agreed to go. My companion and I spent a miserably cold day, sipping bottled water and whispering, while flocks of birds descended and ascended before us. I never saw a single one of them. In an effort not to embarrass either one of us, because I was in too deep now, I echoed his appreciation of the drama he observed and the blank canvas I was facing.
Who knows why it is that I agreed to such a ridiculous notion as bird watching for blind people. Perhaps we were both complicit. My friends wanted to go bird watching so just put the obvious impediment to this out of his mind. I thought that being generous would make us both happy. So we went bird watching. It did not make me happy and my misery leaked out to fill the atmosphere. Other than the ones I have eaten and the odd blob passing by, I never have seen a bird, but I get the general idea. One last look at “Birds of the British Isles” reminds me that I’ve lived my entire life without birds. It’s not a space that needs filling with old books.
These days I’d scoff at such a ridiculous idea as bird watching, but there are probably all kind of other things that I’d agree to do, if I thought it might make someone I care about happy. I once went star gazing because I knew it would bring pleasure to the person I went with. Stars are definitely beyond the final frontier and remain a mystery.
I love trying new things but I’m better in setting my boundaries. I definitely draw the line at pigeon and Opera, both of which are best avoided however much I may want to please others.
The snow this week prompted the son and I to remember a freezing February when he lent out of his bedroom window and broke stalagmites off the edge of the roof to suck on like lollies. We remembered building igloos and snowmen, and lying in the snow at dusk, flapping our arms and legs to see if our bodies could make the shape of angels. We could not. We generated a nondescript imprint that looked more like an accident than divine intervention.
This isn’t my only brush with the white stuff.
When I was six my parents introduced me to the ski slopes. We went to Klosters and stayed at the Wynegg Hotel where I met the legendary Ruth Guler. It was the sixties and everyone was glamorous. That is to say everyone except me. I was wearing a sort of baby pink bonnet affair and a pair of huge yellow goggles. My ski gloves hung out of the cuffs of my ski jacket on a bit of elastic. While others stood around on their ski poles looking relaxed, I mustered all the grace of a new born giraffe.
My parents were un-phased at the prospect of my learning to ski even though snow transformed every lump and bump and mountain into one huge flat white blanket. It was literally snow blindness. This was the moment I was introduced to sighted guiding. It happened by accident.
Ski classes were a no no. They were too tricky to follow and no one wanted to teach me so I had one to one lessons with Emma, who got increasingly frustrated at my inability to do what she demonstrated. In desperation she hit on the idea of describing what she was doing. She taught me how to position my body for the most basic of manoeuvres and off we went. Emma skied in front of me, shouting directions and descriptions over her shoulder.
The thrill of a perfect descent and Emma’s assumption that I’d know that I needed to stop before I hit the restaurant turned out to be my undoing. I hit the resteraunt. My humiliation was surpassed by a friends fully sighted son who skied off the slopes in Italy, into a car park where he landed on the bonnet of a Mercedes. It can happen to anyone.
I love the thrill of moving at speed on skies but it’s hard work. You have to concentrate and you need to have absolute trust in your guide. Without that rapport the experience can be a trial. I’ve skied in Switzerland, Italy and France with guides. I’ve never progressed beyond a blue run and a bit of cross country but that’s ok by me. So long as I can burn off enough to justify the chips at lunch time I’m content.
Let’s be honest. I’m no Olympian and I think my skiing days are behind me, but my parents did something wonderful for me. They set no limits. My choices need not be limited by my horizons. Much like everything else to do with sight loss, it’s not the sight loss that’s the problem but other people’s limited vision.
I once skied with a really grumpy guide in France. On the last hour before lunch we ran into a friend of his so they stopped for a chat. “What are you up to?” asked the friend in French.
“Oh I got lumbered with this. She can’t see so she can’t do much. It f…ing boring’.
He said that we’d better get going as the sooner we left the sooner his agony would be over. I said my goodbye’s in French.
I was asked by one of my fellow skiers if I’d enjoyed myself. I said that I’d found the guiding tough going so might look into going on a ski trip arranged through the Guide Dog Association. I thought the guiding might be better geared to people with sight loss. There was a slight pause and she asked the inevitable; “Do the guide dogs actually go down the hill?”
Viva the blind Olympic skiers. In 2014 Kelly Gallagher won gold for Britain. We have the same eye condition.
I could have been a contender!
I was riding high and in a hurry to get to an appointment, but drearily cruising Bank Station.
Bank Station always has spawned all kinds of interesting interactions that I would never have had if I had the wit and sight to work it out for myself.
It’s proving to be a rich seam for unintended
adventure.
In the hunt for help I stumbled across, well let’s call him Brendon. Brendon was what you might describe as ‘high viz’. High viz is what gets me through Bank Station and on to the train. He works for London Underground and he was super helpful in his high viz jacket.
I gave my usual explanation about not being able to see and he said “No problem. I’ll take you there myself”, and off we set.
“That’s a very striking hat you’re wearing”, he said.
“It’s an Ushanka”.
“I thought you were a Grenadier guardsman”, says Brendon and so we fell into a conversation about how my enormous Russian fur hat came to be mine.
“They used to sell them in C&A,” Brendon said. “No one wears hats anymore, not a hat to really protect you against the cold. In the countryside, in the days before central heating, everyone wore a hat, even inside. I wasn’t always a city boy. I’m from a farming community in Ireland”.
“Colraine?” I venture.
I’ve got a pretty good ear for accents. A long time ago, when I lived in Ireland, I could tell an accent to within a few miles. This was a bit of a guess though. Brendon stopped dead in his tracks. “Now how would a nice English Lady like you know a thing like that?”
“Actually, I’m Irish.”
“Are you what they call a plastic Paddy?” he asks, and I confess that I am and I’m proud of my Irish heritage.
Brendon wonders if my good ear for accents has developed because of my terrible sight. This is a myth of course, or is it?
A 2004 study reported that blind and sight impaired people do have better skills at discerning pitch, but only if they lost their sight early on in life or are born blind. In early life the centres for vision, hearing and other senses are all connected but this naturally diminishes over time. So if you are born with little or no sight then you are far more likely to develop and preserve these connections. It doesn’t always follow that people do though.
I’ve also got excellent directional hearing. If I drop something on my kitchen floor I can usually pick it up at the first go, even if I can’t see it. That includes crisps where the three second rule is strictly applied. We all have directional hearing but I’ve been using my hearing since the day dot to help me navigate the world. I do it very consciously as well as unconsciously. I like to think of it as a sort of sonar system.
My family think I have selective hearing. Requests for kitchen bin emptying often pass me by. I’m also prone to auditory confusion in crowds. “Pass the butter,” can easily turn into “pasta button” or worse. I plead my age. I can’t help it. They just find me annoying.
When we arrived at our destination Brendon said, “Well I enjoyed our conversation. I can’t believe I’ve just spent fifteen minutes talking to a Catholic.” He was pitch perfect. We both threw back our heads and roared with laughter. He knows he could throw out a bit of old style Northern Irish humour and I’ll pick it up no trouble. It didn’t take me three seconds.
“Lucky you” I say.
“Lucky me indeed” he says.
I’m not even going to try to explain how we got from Ushanka to C&A to Colraine to crisps to Catholicism, but he and I knew how we got there. We didn’t just hear one another, we took the trouble to listen. We pitched it just right.
It might be cold but the sky is blue and the sun is out and casting long winter shadows over the landscape. This is the weather for walking, and on Thursday afternoon I bunked off and went for a walk and a talk with my sister.
The sister never leaves home without her penknife. I never leave home without a lipstick. She is academically gifted but once put her finger in the blender and switched it on to see if it was working. I was on the floor convulsing with laughter and incapable. She was making a cake at the time. Her solution to this mishap was to put a sign in front of said cake that read “not suitable for vegetarians”. I would not have thought of this.
Our walk offers a huge variety in landscape and terrain. The sister thinks that this affords me the ideal opportunity to see what a long cane has to offer. I have tried to explain that it’s not designed for cross country. She has never come to terms with the reasons why a long cane cannot offer you a suitable form of mobility in the undergrowth. I have just never really got my head around the long cane full stop. I know I don’t make as much use of it as I know would be helpful but the under growth is a suggestion to far. She cannot see the point of any aid to mobility that cannot take on brambles and quagmires because this is where she tends to walk. I like to know the pavement below my feet is solid because that’s where I tend to walk.
I do make a concession to the glare that the low slung sun causes and by which means the world in front of me can vanish, stabbed out by needle points of light rays. I wear ski glasses and a trilby.
We set off well enough and occasionally the sister will helpfully tell me that we are coming to a nice flat piece of ground. More frequently she says, “Oh yeah. I forgot to mention that tree root and the huge pool of muddy slush that has just made its way into your shoe”. That’s the problem with having a good intellect. You cannot have your mind on higher things and be down in the dirt with your relatives at the same time.
Sometimes she holds back a branch or a bramble and then lets it go just before I have cleared it. Very occasionally, she offers helpful narration on the wildlife, which she is extremely good at. She once forgot to mention a deer fence that I marched into at throat height. The convulsions that followed must have had more of an impact on her than me because she has never done that again. She will always say when we are at the fence. Then, as we tumble out of woodland onto the side of a windswept hill, and as I am pulling my hat down low and the jacket zip up high, she sometimes says, “we’re out of the wood and at the top of the hill. The wind is blowing.”
I am ashamed then to say that Thursday’s brush with a tree was not of her making but mine and that the learning point for me was that I might be just as hooked by my phone as the next Joanna. At the precise moment she ducked below a branch, I lowered my head as I took my phone out of my bag. The brim of my hat obscured the tree branch and bang. I could see stars and felt my neck go crunch.
As I was thinking about the £60 physio charge I was about to incur, I heard the sister say, “oh yes, there’s a tree branch”. The moral dilemma was whether to take responsibility or blame the sister. I’d like to say that I didn’t hesitate in doing the right thing, but I did, just for a split second.
I am a great fan of the bike. I have a bike. It lives in my shed and has flat tyres and never goes out. It’s a sit up and beg bike that I bought when my sister bought a hugely expensive mountain bike and all the gear because she was going to take up serious cross country cycling and offered to come out with me.
We went cycling once together before she refused to go again. She refused on the grounds that it was too frightening to see the expressions of terror on the faces of those who had to dodge my unregulated progress. Her bike languished in the garden and finally expired. Lamenting it’s demise she asked me to give her mine. I refused on principle.
My son is a great fan of the bike too. He loves bikes so much that not even getting knocked off his bike deterred him. The driver came out of a side turning without stopping or indicating and ploughed straight into my son who was catapulted across Chiswick High Road and landed on the bonnet of an oncoming car. (Hurrah I say!. It was on the car and not under it.) He broke his shoulder in three places and had to call for his own ambulance because no one else did.
I am also a great fan of my son and support his choice to cycle. Like sex, I’d just prefer not to know about it. I do know he’s properly attired when he cycles though. A few weeks ago he drew up short in front of me in Clapham High Street shouting “Mother”. Me and the creature resembling a large ant, tottered to the pavement, him in his clip on shoes and lycra, me with my Waitrose bags.
I would also venture to suggest that my son is a fan of mine. While he can recite my shortcomings he’s reasonably attached to me, and after a drink or two has been known to express his hope that I should live a long life, though he fears that I might meet my end under the wheels of a bike that I didn’t see coming.
His fears were nearly realised in Esher recently, when I did get hit by a cyclist as I was crossing the road at the green man. It was my right of way. The offender, for that’s what he was, lobbed a few four letter words my way then cycled off and as the traffic flowed once more, I picked myself up and stood in the road with cars brushing past. I had to wait for the lights to change again before the traffic stopped and I could go on my way.
They say that a little bit of fear every day is a good thing and helps you to know that you are alive. Navigating your right of way across a road, or your way down the pavement where cyclists loom is a bit like playing street fighter, which gets the cortisol levels racing.
Viva the rise of pedal power, but spare a thought for those of us too old to have worn lycra and those of us who have never seen a lycra clad cyclist up close and personal unless we are related to them or until it is too late.
Banking is a dirty word these days and Bankers have come in for a pasting. Bank Station, with it’s ongoing improvement work, huge levels of public investment and disgruntal travellers is not a bad metaphor for anyone mystified by Banking. It’s confusing.
It’s a constantly changing terrain down in Bank tube station, with it’s temporary signage that is like the small print in a loan agreement and just too tricky to read, it’s temporary structures, and all the twists and turns that only served to undermine my confidence in my own judgement because I ended up in Rotherhyde when I meant to go to Tooting.
Dave, at Clapham North, has a technique for stuffing me in to the front carriage of the northbound rush hour service so I’m in the right place when I get to Bank. At Bank it’s my fellow commuters I generally rely on. While the ones that tut and complain at my dithering presence assume a greater importance in my consciousness than they deserve, spare a thanks for the people who go out of their way.
The best of my fellow travellers ask if help is required rather than telling me that help will be provided. They meet me on equal terms and do not grab me or speak loudly and slowly. When I have my cane in my hand, which I don’t always do, they don’t point out the direction “over there” but explain. They offer up seats and I willingly accept to avoid having to fight not falling over on a moving train. They don’t plead for divine intercdence on my behalf and they don’t lose it if they realise that I can see to read my mobile phone. It’s the little things that go a long way to making life easier. Just when I was getting lulled into these little interactions as the norm, I got my comeuppance.
Having been wandering round Bank Station for about 20 minutes, a lovely man asked me if he could help. I was not swayed by his obvious charms but willingly accepted, and as we set out from the Central westbound platform for the second time that afternoon, in search of the Northern Line southbound, I surrendered to his judgement. We fell into conversation and I must say that I was fully engaged, although if you asked me now what he looked like or what we talked about, I would say that I have not got a clue.
When we arrived on the southbound platform of the Northern line, he said that this is where he would leave me and I was suitably grateful and tried not to flick back my hair while saying my goodbyes to our brief encounter. He left me and as the train approached I heard the announcement; “this was the westbound Central line service to West Riselip”. I set out to find the Northern line for the fourth time in an afternoon.
I did something rather wonderful this morning. It involved Grand Masters and there was not a golf ball in sight.
Golf is a whole other story: I once went for a golf lesson. I have no idea how blind people make a go of this inscrutable game. I found it impossible to line the iron up with the ball and spent a frustrating hour beating the hell out of thin air and terrifying my coach. After the lesson ended and he mopped his brow, he told me not to come back.
These Grand Masters would not have been seen dead, let alone alive, in the coveted Masters Green Jacket. It’s a truism of just about all paintings in Charles 1 collection that green doesn’t make much of an appearance. It was an unstable color. You couldn’t just drop a blob of blue into a blob of yellow and hope for the best. Reds predominate.
I gave up going to art galleries a long time ago. It’s not that it’s impossible to appreciate the beauty and sentiment of great art. Good magnification can make it worthwhile, but it’s the crowds that do it.
If you are trying to check out the art work with a pair of binoculars clamped to you face it makes it tricky to move to the best vantage point when the dear old public stand bang smack between you and the picture. Every time you move you have to refocus the binoculars and then bang, someone loses their patience because you are in their way. A neatly positioned nudge to the elbow delivers a nifty blow to the eye socket and game over.
I’ve had more injuries in art galleries than on golf courses.
What a treat it was then, to have “Charles 1 King and Collector”, at the Royal Academy, to myself, with only the hardiest of art lovers for company, at eight o’clock in the morning. There were no crowds, just a group of very polite people quietly waiting their turn. No risk of a black eye.
My host for this uplifting start to the day, had invited me to a private view that I had never seen, and as we wandered from room to room, she shared her extensive knowledge of King Charles 1 and his appetite for buying up the the art of less fortunate royal bankrupts when they were forced to sell up. She read the catalogue notes out loud and gave me a wonderful description of the brush work of Van Dyck and Titian.
It beats the last time I had the joy of such an enthusiastic guide: I went to the Tracy Emin at the Hayward. The notes were not accounts of the representation of noble ambition, but of earthier pursuits like sex and drugs and alcohol, all read out loud. I can get this at home. I can even manage to avoid making my bed, or possibly getting out of it, without too much trouble at home. Charles 1 collection, on the other hand, was well worth getting out of bed for.
What would have capped it all off, was to be allowed to touch the few sculptures that were there. I did this at a Jacob Epstein exhibition years ago and it was wonderful. What the dark dense material of a sculpture couldn’t convey to my eye, fingers did. I might not have seen what the casual, or not so casual, viewer saw, but the picture in my head was fulsome and the effort worth it.
We all filter our understanding of what we see through the lens of experience and where we’re standing at the time. Just because I happen to have a less visual experience of such delights does not mean it’s not worth it. It is.
I’m about half way through reading ‘My Brilliant Friend”. I say I’m reading it. I’m actually listening to it as an audio book.
There are those that say this isn’t reading at all and that it’s a lesser activity. These people are predominantly people who can see to read a Penguin Classic, which, lets face it, not many of us can do when you consider the meanness of ink and paper involved.
Even in the world of sight loss, there are those who share this purist view of reading. They favour the generosity of a braille manuscript, that you need a wheelbarrow to shift. I prefer the audio file. It’s all positional.
I agree that the voice of a narrator is a very different experience from the translation of a printed page to a picture in your head, but the audio book, that had its origins in making books accessible to those of us who don’t read print, is in the ascendancy. You don’t have to be blind to appreciate its charms. Everyone is doing it.
Back in the day, blind subscribers to the tape library were treated to the tones of the volunteer reader, who delivered the doings of drama in a tone that sometimes strangled the moment. There were even the sounds of the odd doorbell and dogs barking. I haven’t tried it myself, but a friend told me that “you haven’t lived until you’ve heard porn read by a volunteer reader”.
Ten years ago a publisher I know told me that audio books would never take off because they were associated with blindness and “who wants to get lumped in with a load of blind people.” These days I can download, just about any audio book. You can even get most of the curriculum, in an audio file if you want it.
I bet it won’t be long before publishers see the potential and switching on the audio or large print function comes as standard on all digital formats. That should be a challenge for Biff and Chip and Kipper.
Blindness has been a wonderful midwife: There were probably those who thought that people would never give up the quill in favour of the fountain pen or the typewriter. Both are early examples of technology for blind people. Then there is the thing that we all take for granted whenever we cross border control, or use a bank card, or send a pdf. Optical Character Recognition (OCR) began as a method of scanning and speaking everything from the gas bill to novels for the benefit of blind people. It gave us the very first mouse, (to be caressed not trapped). Now both mouse and character recognition technology are firmly embedded in our everyday life, and aren’t we the better for it?
I’m not much of a techy but I’ve embraced it. It gets me from A to B with a talking map, allows me to command my friends to do strange things through text messages that cannot be recalled once sent and keeps me reading. Funny thing is that all these great ideas, designed to help overcome blindness, seem to have got lumped in with a load of people who can see and who have long forgotten just who gave birth to these inventions.
What a pity that so few blind people can afford the rising costs of technology that once had them at its heart.
Some boroughs provide assistance with the cost of taxis to their blind residents. It gets people out and about and if you can’t use public transport it can be a lifeline. The idea is that the taxi comes to you rather than you having to find the taxi. Much like an Uber. I’ve never tried the Uber but given the alternatives, a light went on in my head and I thought I’d give it a go.
My current taxi hailing technique is to stand on the side of the road with my arm outstretched, sometimes for half an hour, in the vein hope that a taxi might come along and stop and transport me to a glittering party at the Ritz or late night shopping at Morrisons. It’s always a vein hope, not because I never get invitations to glittering parties at the Ritz or go late night shopping in Morrisons. I often go to Morrisons.
There will always be someone who positions themselves between me and the oncoming much longed for taxi. Now that really is the ultimate in queue jumping and the height of bad manners and I have no idea that it’s happening because I can neither see the taxi nor the queue jumper. They, on the other hand, have the advantage of being able to see exactly what they are doing.
Enter the Uber: What a marvelous arrangement for anyone who can’t see. A cab you call up and it finds you. No more aching shoulders from my impression of an unsuccessful hitch hiker, no more losing out to someone who knows what they are doing. I am finally in the game.
I loaded up the Uber app and learnt to navigate the site. There’s a lot to remember. Which blob does what, how to enter destinations and how to reply to texts. It all has to be memorised because I can’t readily see it. First time out and oh Lordy, they have made some changes to improve my experience of the site.
Now I have no idea what any of the blobs are and when I do get it to work there is the awful dawning that the way you know your Uber has arrived is by knowing what the car looks like and what it’s registration is. All is not lost though as you can talk to your driver. They’ll come and get you if you explain that you can’t see. At least, that’s the theory.
I don’t know how it happened but our driver ended up in Tavistock Square while we were in Leigh Street. He thoughtfully called to say that if we could make our way there he’d pick us up. My friend explained that we wouldn’t be able to do that because “we’re blind” and gave our precise location. “OK’ he said. Ten minutes elapsed and he called back to say he was still waiting. Well, that was a red rag and my companion snarled that being blind would make that tricky and that we were waiting for him. The driver said he didn’t see why being blind should make it a problem for us to find him and then my companion spoke very slowly. I won’t bother to repeat what he said but we had to start again.
Our second attempt ended up with a long enough wait between ordering the Uber and the driver cancelling the job, that we actually considered going out to lunch.
Nearly forty minutes later our third driver arrived within three minutes of pressing the button. He didn’t bat an eye lid about the very large guide dog. He wanted to know how long the training took. My companion said it took about eighteen months to two years to train a guide dog. “Not the dog,” said our driver. “How long does it take to train you?”
A couple of days ago a friend of mine invited me out to Lunch last minute. She’s always to be relied on to pick a good place to eat. Thursday was no exception.
The choice was not an easy one. Should we go for a starter as well as a main course? What was the difference between the kind of chicken we normally eat and a black one? Should we try something with truffle? Should I be really self disciplined and stick with lettuce salad?
We had just got to the point when we thought we knew, but were giving the menu one last check. I normally get my friends to read the menu to me but I had my reading eye pressed to the page. When I say pressed, the right side of my nose was flat against the surface of the menu. It might not look comfortable but it gets the job done.
“Madam,” a voice said. “I have something for you.”
“Oh good,” I thought, imagining some delicacy to tickle my palate. How wrong I was. I looked up to find the suited restaurant manager standing next to me proffering a silver salver on which was laid out a folded white linen napkin. Nestling in the folds of the napkin were four pairs of glasses.
“No thank you,” I said and carried on reading.
“But madam, this will help you if you have forgotten your glasses.”
“No thank you,” I said, returning to my menu.
No sooner had I done so than I became gripped by a regret at my lack of manners. My friend launched in to fill the awkward space I’d left. “She’s blind as a bat. Beyond glasses. I wouldn’t bother if I were you.” We’re life long friends which gives her exemption from the normal rules of sighted people describing me in these terms.
“You were really rude to him,” she said.” You had better make up for it and show a little interest in where the chicken comes from. He was trying to be helpful,” she hissed.
“If you looked at people sideways and carried your white stick he’d know you couldn’t see. On second thoughts, probably just as well you didn’t or you might have hit him with it, poor man.”
Four pairs of glasses bought in the chemist would probably meet the needs of most people who’d forgotten their specs, so proffering help was the most normal thing in the world. It was probably born out of an ethos of ultra customer service that should have just about covered it. What they couldn’t muster was a large print menu. Not even a trip to the photocopier would apparently make that possible.
Sometimes, vision is a two-way thing. Not everyone can imagine that there are really people who see so little, or nothing at all, who are out in the world and eating. Not all of us who are doing the eating can imagine why it’s not possible to produce a large print menu or that glasses served on a silver salver is meant to be a kindness not an annoyance.
On a day when a fellow customer in the supermarket had already told me how hilarious I looked when reading a price label, it was hard not to take a swipe. I could have done better.
People are people. Maybe we all have our limitations. Black chicken, it turns out, is still chicken.
It might have been Joseph Heller who said something along the lines that just because you are paranoid, doesn’t mean they aren’t out to get you.
Call me paranoid: It was the middle of the night and it was a desolate bus stop at Luton Airport. I was alone. There was just me, my red suitcase with huge white spots on it that is easier to see than a more restraint style of luggage, and there was my cane of course. Then came the man in the Aaron jumper, (never best worn with mourning dress), who asked me if I needed any help. I was polite but firm. I did not. It was kind of him to offer.
It was a long cold wait, after the second delayed night flight in three days, and little chance of getting home. Aaron jumper and I had just missed the bus. He made me feel as if I was being watched. Luckily we were not alone for long and with each new member of the queue he mouthed and pointed at me. He had got there before any of them and he was first in the queue to ensure that I would be helped and they would be in no doubt who was doing the helping.
When the bus finally arrived he led from the front and made sure I got just what he knew I needed. He gripped my cane and manouvred it for me, thus depriving me of my principle means of establishing what the hell was going on around me. He was going to make sure there were no accidents on his watch.
While I was composing myself after a small tussle and a polite “it’s easier if I do it myself” he held back the waves of competing passengers by stretching out both arms to form a human shield, mouthing something, Les Dawson style, before commanding some bemused Bulgarians to “stand back”.
The man who sold bus tickets thought he knew all about the white cane, but he was in for a treat. Aaron jumper clasped him by the shoulders and explained in more Les Dawson whispers, point and wink tones, that like the QEII, I was approaching.
On the bus, I could sense him looking at me. It’s the strangest feeling to know you are being observed, scrutinised. I got out my phone to check the train times. Aaron jumper said, ‘You can see then”. Praise be that he didn’t say it was a miracle. “Yes” I said. There was a long pause and he said, “But not much”. In a kind of “I was right all along” tone.
When we tipped off the bus at the railway station I suggested that he go first in case he missed his last train. At the ticket barrier he told an unsuspecting woman, in a high viz jacket, that he’d been helping me but he had to run for his train. “Go on” he commanded her. There was no more pointing a winking. “That lady’s blind,” he yelped. “She can’t see a dam thing.” Less she should be in any doubt he gave her a good shove in my general direction. There were raised voices, a tussle. I didn’t hang around. I hope he got his train alright.
On the platform I busied myself with a little bit of eaves dropping on a conversation about one woman’s love affair with cigarettes. Call me paranoid, but they’ll get her in the end.
The young are all blessed with beauty. I admit that beauty is a subjective judgement. I think that my god daughter, who is keen on an orange skin tone, is a great beauty, although I have not, until now, been a great fan of orange.
I wish I had known all of this when I was young and not at all bad looking. Now I have to remind myself that I will never be any younger or better looking than I am today, so I had better make the most of it, and making the most of it means shopping for clothes.
The challenge is how to shop if you cannot see to do it.
A blind woman I know is always impeccably presented. Surely it cannot be her husband who supports her in this. Left to the choices of the men I know I would be the owner of a double breasted mustard coloured blazer with epilates and half sleeves, a selection of synthetic zip up Scandinavian knitwear and some remarkably ambitious underwear.
The trouble with my female friends is their tendency to impose their tastes on me. What they know with certainty, because they can see what I can not, is what is best for me. What I know with total certainty, because I can smell a turkey at fifty meters, is that they never get it right.
My default position is to revert to what I know works. This will inevitably be a blue dress in the style of the many blue dresses I have in my wardrobe, which is now packed with blue dresses I hope to rely on over a life time of needing to dress myself.
Last year, during a blue dress pre-purchase try on, I overheard a voice I knew, but could not place, in the cubicle next to me. She was with her personal shopper. Obviously I solicited an opinion. “Buy the blue dress,” they said, so I did.
The challenge is now on to buy an outfit for my son’s wedding. I do not want to look like the Mother of the Groom. It is enough that I am his Mother.
At the very least I think that I have four blue dresses that I can fit into now that would probably get me through the day without disgracing myself. I probably have another four that I like a lot and wish I had not had taken in. I might even have another four that would provide coverage.
What I have also come to realise is that, just like crossing the road, this could end in a car crash. This is not a job for or any one of my friends, male or female, but rather, a job for a professional, and I’ve made a start. I’ve dipped my toe in the water and had my first experience of a personal shopper.
All I had to do was book it. No more searching the rails, no more bemusement, no more knocking things over, no more exhaustion with trying to see what I can no longer see, no more giving up and going home.
My personal shopper had an approach that encouraged me to trust her. Her job, she explained, was to give expression to the way I saw myself. What was in my imagination?
Not once did she say “I think you should try a bigger size,” or “what about orange?” or “actually I can’t take this anymore.” Or “definitely get the G-string.” She was there to facilitate and that stretched to helpful descriptions of fit and look and all the searching. All I had to do was say that I didn’t want anything in blue.
The personal shopper is a fabulous development. Every sight impaired person should have them as standard issue. Beyond the obvious advantage of being able to over ride their personal prejudices, in the choice of my clothes, they are a way of securing the longevity of my friendships with nearest and dearest as well as the promise of comfortable underwear.
The older we get the more common the experience of meeting people that you have met before and then having the same conversation with them that you had last time you met them. One, or both of you, cannot remember that you have ever met.
I once delivered a training course in the Europa Hotel, Belfast, with a super friendly participant. At the end of the day he asked me if I remembered him. I did not. It turned out that fifteen years earlier we had enjoyed a kiss at one of those wild South Belfast parties I used to go to in the early eighties. Funnily enough I don’t recall what we talked about but I do remember the kiss.
Parties are a challenge if you can’t see much. These days I often find I can’t tell the difference between furniture and people let alone men and women, but I have a technique: I slowly circle round the room until I settle on the vibe that says I can join in. This is a tried and tested approach that has served me well.
Recently I went to a party which seemed to me to be populated by people of my parents generation in bad wigs, some of who played tuneless guitar so loudly it made my ears itch and rendered speech impossible. It was also dark with only the odd flashing light to illuminate frenzied middle aged dancing. I had to revert to plan B. I stood still and tried to look relaxed and happy, as if the cacophony were my idea of heaven.
During the course of a very long evening, a lot of people came to say hello and weirdly seemed to know who I was, even if I had no idea who they were. I always advise that it’s a good idea to say who you are. But they never proffered their identity, and feeling that it would be rude to enquire, I never asked.
On the up side it’s a huge game; a bit like Twenty Questions. They say “Hello, how nice to see you” or “Hello, you look really well’. No one has ever says I look awful. I set myself the goal of asking enough of the right sort of questions to work out who I’m talking to and award myself points for the speed with which I can do this.
On the down side, I didn’t manage to guess them all. I don’t know who it was who said I had the best dye job she’s ever seem. My hair isn’t dyed. A forgettable exchange I think.
Midnight seemed a descent enough hour to retreat to my hosts’ guest room. Luckily I knew the way. Unluckily I got it wrong and ended up on my hands and knees crawling over a rockery and through the shrubbery. God knows if anyone saw me or what they must have thought if they did. More likely I will have been labelled blind drunk than plain old blind.
That might have been alright when I was young because everyone got drunk at parties. It was the eighties. There were people to kiss. Nowadays I’d rather be thought blind than blind drunk and I’m saving my kisses for the dog. Apart from anything else, too much crawling about at parties won’t do my reputation any good.
Twenty Questions may have come to the end of it’s useful life. I might just go for “I can’t see you. Who are you?”.