Results tagged “Looking Up” from Looking Up

The excerpt below is a translation into and back from Korean. Reading this has made me realise just how much better my book would have been if I had followed this simple process...

Where to begin? So, it is easy. I'm at the bottom of the client's garden on the roof of an old garage is a fake. I browse the basin under the tree, and just at what is happening is confused.

  A few moments ago, I was a tree, 6 meters in 45 minutes and cut the rope and harness ready to unload it by the top was working.  I can feel my legs and my back is now.

  I, my wife, Penny, also calling me to see me trying to get through the shrubbery in the garden of tangling with jilhohanda out to the gardener.

She is five months pregnant. She just to listen to my voice, low-cost report, to fall, I had assumed that. April 1, 2005, I am 36 years old.

What is weird here, now "it, but somehow I can not remember the pain I remember is that the words" that sick.

I think that's going to get sick, I also like barking like a fairy remember remembered that....

Penny out of fear of losing consciousness, so that a certain line of the conversation to keep her empty.  She called in 20 minutes, we are combined by paramedics.

I could go on, but I fear it will taking something away from the rather pedestrian original version.

I've suddenly realised that I have made no mention on here about my reading at the very wonderful Stoke Newington Bookshop.

This is not because of any emotional trauma involved, causing me to blot it out, but rather the distraction of my floundering sporting career.

That said, I did find the experience quite disturbing. It was the inevitable flash back to school days. In particular I recall having to do live translations in Latin. And, by the way, this was in a state comprehensive.What was Latin was doing there (and no, Rushby-Smith, although double barreled, does not make me a Fotherington-Thomas.)?


Yes, I faltered. Yes, I went beetroot red. Yes, I mumbled into the book, and yes it went on for ever. But the funny thing is, no-one else seemed to notice. I even got a few laughs. In the right places. Not, "I'm afraid you'll never walk again." room erupts with guffaws. etc.

But the best thing was to receive genuine encouragement from other writers, and to see familiar faces from the neighbourhood, as well as a few from my past, including old friends and even my school music teacher. It must be strange for those I have lost touch with to suddenly find me in a wheelchair. Not on the usual list of,
" I see the old Barnet's on the retreat."
"You're looking well fed, these days."
"Still a Goth? In this day and age?"
"That rash never cleared up, then?"

Short of 'gender realignment', I think the wheelchair would be the most talked about change at a school reunion. Luckily, I have never been within a country mile of a school reunion, especially not one for my school, which would probably have to take place in Parkhurst.

Right, more coffee to get me through the fug of last night's sleeper. Old Spike dropped by again, last night. There are some old friends I could live without...

Happened again last night, thankfully. No, dear reader. I'm not suggesting that my paraplegia is 'cured' by my being unconscious. Now that would be confusing, wouldn't it? Imagine having to fall asleep at the bottom of the stairs in order to wake up at the top. At least long-haul flights would be more bearable.

No, the walking I am referring to occurs in my dreams. The funny thing is that on some subconscious level I am still aware that I am disabled, and so in dreams I affect a slight limp. Last night's slumbers were interrupted by frequent bursts of pain that woke me up. This is not that uncommon, but last night it was more persistent. And for some reason, my limp became more pronounced, and actually slowed me up.

All this leaves me extremely unsettled by the possibility that I may eventually be paraplegic in my dreams.

Other news...

I shall be reading from my book and discussing the writing of it on Monday 13th October at 8pm in Stoke Newington Books, should you find yourself in the neighbourhood (London's 'bohemian' N16 area for anyone who is overseas). Entry is £2.50 in which includes a glass of wine, apparently. Bargain.

Monday was a long day... The trip to the BBC in the morning, where I was shown to a small studio with a microphone and a pair of headphones. Headphones on, a voice comes over the line, saying, "We'll be putting you through to the studio in one minute." With no clue as to the format of the interview, or how long it will be. First up was a one to one with a presenter, which went OK, but I didn't know how long it would be going on for, and just as I hit my stride, the interview came to an end...

Second one. Over the headphones, I heard a phone-in discussion about experimenting on animals, where a contributor is told to ,"Stay on the line, because in a strange sort of way the next story links to what you've just said, so I know you'll be interested."
The caller had been talking about decompression testing on goats, so I was rather confused and concerned as to how I was going to make my story 'link'.

Thankfully, it didn't really, but instead I spoke for a few minutes, only to hear a neurology consultant come on the line who sounded much more uncomfortable than me. He'd probably been expecting to talk about exploding goats, only to hear about some guy who'd fallen out of a tree, which probably doesn't really count as decompression. It worked out OK in the end, and he did give the book a really positive plug.

The last one turned out to be a pre-record for later in the week, which made me feel much more relaxed, and by this stage I'm a seasoned professional (media whore).

Interviews over, I waited for my car (oh lah-de-dah!), sitting next to Paul Morley. I took a moment to tell him,
"I just wanted to say that I really enjoy your writing."
"Oh, right. Thanks."
Awkward silence, during which I should have mentioned that I've got a book out. You know, the 'I'm a writer too' conversation, but I didn't , and so we sat and stared straight ahead, while The Wombats got picked up from reception for a live slot on BBC 6Music. I'm guessing that's who it was, unless it was a bunch of fashionably dressed young men clutching guitar cases that, according to the description stenciled on them, actually contained wombats.

Home again, in time for the morning coffee to fully wear off, and by late afternoon, I was feeling pretty shattered. I managed to start work on a piece I'm writing (more nearer the time), and tried and stay awake, but it was a struggle. The old pain was really kicking in by the evening, and so I had a small glass (or two) of Shiraz flavoured  complimentary medicine, which didn't help on the button-bright alertness front.

Finally, at about 11.15pm, I had and extended interview with Radio New Zealand which I'm just listening to now, as I have no idea what I babbled about. Maybe it's better if I don't...

And so... the day is upon us. Launch party at Waterstones book shop in Islington, London, 6-8 pm.

Smoke 'em if you've got 'em (only make sure you do it outside, what with the smoking ban, and all). Sound of plaintive harmonica drifts over the scene, as I sit in thoughtful pose, polishing my fountain pen (a gift from my mother), and making sure it's loaded.
The books have arrived, the drinks are due to land just before us, and then we have to work fast, loading the fridge and setting up defensive piles of books before the first wave comes in.

Enough. All I really have to do is try and nail a signature that looks the same twice, and speed my handwriting up to cope with the highly absorbent paper. Nervous? Moi?
You betcha.
I have made a few notes as to what to say, but I fear that I may be the only wheelchair user there, which could be rather embarrassing. I'm hopeful that there'll be at least another two, and I'm not sure what the problem would be if I was wheeling solo, it just seems right to have a few others around too, if only to show that I have made friends in the last three years of membership of the Spinal Cord Injuries Club.

The only thing I haven't done yet is slap plenty of ibuprofen gel on my neck, as there are not going to be many chairs for A.B.s to sit on. Which reminds me...

One of my first encounters with a public servant after my injury was at a benefits office, when this very helpful and rather nervous lady of about fifty started to give me the information I needed, only to stop suddenly and say out loud, "I'm just going to sit down so that I have come down to your level."
And I thought, "It doesn't really work so well if you TELL me why you're doing it."
Ah, the joys of disability awareness training.  I shouldn't snipe, she was helpful, it's just that I find some people's nervousness about doing the wrong thing can often disable THEM completely.

I move out, offering a stiff necked salute. See you on the other side.