Results tagged “book” from Looking Up

Just doing a bit of a cull on some paperwork when I stumbled across this picture again.


For those who may be unfamiliar with this particular episode (page 240 in my book), I had a tyre blow-out on my car while driving up to Stoke Mandeville in 2006. The result was, well, as above...

I managed to flip the car and roll it three times before crawling out of the sardine can that remained. Tempted as I was to do the "I can't feel my legs" speech all over again, I decided to spare the feelings of the horrified crowd that had stopped, no doubt expecting a mangled corpse.

At the time, I remained in a state of almost Zen-like calm throughout the experience. I'm fairly certain that this was due to previous traumas using up my reserves of 'consequence calculation chemicals' or something.

Looking back four years later, however, and with my reserves no doubt topped up by four years of parenting, the picture makes for difficult viewing.

Having a child makes one see danger and consequence in just about everything from the swings in the park to a particularly angry looking piece of toast. I'm sure that this instinct is heightened when spontaneous movement and therefore reactive intervention is compromised.

But the picture above also makes me feel a sense of responsibility towards my family. A responsibility to take care of myself so that I can be of use to them. And so I wave a fond farewell to the invincibility of youth and chart a course towards a world of fear and mortality.

OK, that was a tad over-dramatic. But it is a dramatic picture, no?

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.

Just finished an interesting book. It came up in conversation two weeks ago, and I hadn't heard of it...

It's called The Homemaker by Dorothy Canfield. The book tells the story of a mother of three who is a desperately unhappy housewife. She spends her time obsessively cleaning and intimidating the children while her husband works as an accountant who has no hope of promotion and spends the day thinking about poetry.

Anyhow, he falls off neighbour's roof and breaks his back leaving him paraplegic. She goes out to work, he stays at home and looks after the kids, etc. OK, so I've rather brutally filleted the story, there is a bit more to it than that. But what makes it really stand out is that The Homemaker was written in 1924. In that context, there is as much emphasis on the shock of the married mother going out to work as there is on the shock of the father's accident.

It also made an interesting read as R started nursery last week. Oh, they grow up so fast/where has the time gone/seems like only yesterday etc.

One thing that children do provide is more of a sense of time passing. Having lost count (a little) of time passed since I broke my back, the fact that R was born four months later rather means that I can see how far I've come. These moments of reflection usually start with me thinking of her and end up being all about me. Isn't it always?

But time passing since my accident needs to be acknowledged every so often. How far I've come. How accomplished my wheelchair skills are. How I still stubbornly refuse help and end up upside down in people's hallways (sorry Gabby!). How much fitter I am. The hills I can now push up. And, inevitably, how much pain has become a part of everyday life.

That last one is depressing most of the time, although there is a slight upside, which is that on a good day I can congratulate myself on dealing with it so well. On a bad day I berate myself for being so spineless (ho ho) and not just going under the knife to get that sucka sliced and diced once and for all (See previous entry, if you're at all puzzled).

Still, how did we get on to that again? Never mind.

I am also throwing the odd brush at canvas again for the first time in 5 years. I'm not sure where I'm headed, but it's good to be taking that particular journey again. We are planning another open studio at the end of the month.  So I'd better get a move on. I can't sit here all day and night writing this rubbish, so be off with yer. Go on, shoo!

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...

Saturday saw a family outing to the Royal Festival Hall for G and S's wedding. It was a fantastic day, immersed in the newly refurbished building that celebrates the original design, right down to the carpets...

It was a great event, with a touching attention to detail. All the kids were given their own copy of
This is London...

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...

Yep, my old friend Spike has dropped by for another visit. So as I sit wincing and waiting for the sleeper to kick in, I thought I'd use this most inappropriate moment to log in and rant about the complete lack of customer reviews of my book on Amazon. (this is a real struggle. I'm even typing slurred now. apologies.)

It's not been a great week so far. Oh, the newspaper coverage has been great, and I may have scored my first commission to write some stuff, which is fantastic. But yesterday my daughter kicked me in the head (I was lying on the couch at the time. She hasn't developed a leaping roundhouse kick before she's three) and then I fell out of my wheelchair in the kitchen for no discernible reason. It just happens sometimes, even after three years in a chair.

And now? Well, my personal equivalent of Winston's black dog of depression is a bull-terrier of neuro-pain trying to gnaw it's way though my left leg. For those who are new to my story, I am referring euphemistically to the neurogenic pain that I live with since suffering a spinal cord injury. I do not have an excessively unruly and very hungry pet under the desk. Although if I did, I wouldn't know until I spotted the blood. At which time I would summon my daughter to dispatch the violent canine with some fiendish manouevre.

Of course, the ever reliable late season collapse at the Arsenal hasn't exactly buoyed my mood either. Still, transitional season, no-one expected us to finish higher than 7th, young team, etc, etc. (It's not even making me feel any better either.)

See, I knew this was a bad idea. Someone out there write me a review on Amazon, and end this awful drug-addled drivel.

Finally, a picture of happier times, at the book launch last week. And, by the way, I haven't suddenly remembered a bit I'd left out. I am in fact signing the thing. In long hand, and totally illegible too. Special secret training is given to Doctors and authors.

Message ends.

I was just wandering around Flickr (come on, we've all done it), and I stumbled upon this set of pics. Now, as I'm sure you may have realised from previous missives, I'm an enthusiastic participant in wheelchair sport, but I have to confess, this one has rather got me stumped.

From what I can gather looking at the sequence of pictures, the game begins by throwing people around in such a way as to ensure that they will need a wheelchair before too long. Once this has been achieved, two teams of wheelchair users attempt to strip each other while the referee (who is on roller skates for no apparent reason) is attacked by some guy dressed as a giant dog. Then two people in hockey masks attempt to stuff giant marshmallows down each other's shirts. Then the ref hitches a ride from the nearest wheelchair, while players try to gain bonus points by licking their opponent's elbow, before they all grab a stick each and try and bash the crap out of the guy who got the most marshmallows. Oh, and then someone in a wheelchair hits a ball with a stick, despite the referee's intervention.The final whereabouts of the man dressed as dog remains uncertain.

And finally, a huge thank you to everyone who came to my book launch yesterday. I struggled through today feeling somewhat overhanged, but still genuinely moved by all your support and encouragement. Ta.

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.

We have landed in the family section of The Guardian this morning. A good article, though it seems to suggest that my book is something of a 'bonkbuster'. I didn't think it was that, erm... salacious, but if it helps to shift a few copies... Over all, we're really pleased with the piece. 

My specialist subject, obviously. Firstly, I should like to apologise if this gets at all disjointed but I am drinking whisky while I wait for a sleeper to kick in. All this would be great were it not for the bastard who insists on jamming a red-hot spike into my left leg every thirty seconds. He is actually called spike, and he is my old nemesis. His visits have been sufficiently infrequent of late, that he managed to sneak up and get me good for daring to even entertain the notion that he might have gone away, or at least mellowed. Now he's proper pissed off, and I am chasing oblivion by whatever means I can find.