Looking Up

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!

Forgive the cheesy description, but there is some truth in there. This afternoon saw me in my usual space at the Emirates stadium to watch my beloved, exasperating Arsenal against Manchester United, a game I fully expected us to lose on the form we have shown this season. Instead, we were treated to a real ding-dong, rip roaring match full of excitement and incident. Real end to end stuff indeed.

We were of course triumphant in the end, and I sang my heart out. Well, it's infectious when there are some sixty thousand around you doing the same.

Anyway, my point... Well, the point is when we scored, when they nearly did, when we shouted for a penalty, all these moments, I was totally gripped. To the exclusion of anything else. Even my paralysis. OK, I didn't leap to my feet when we scored, sadly. But thankfully, we have scored enough goals since my injury that I knew that, and I've got used to it. The rush, the leap is all there, but different. And when it comes I am able to enjoy the moment unconditionally.

There are other things that I can enjoy unconditionally: Tennis, tickling our daughter, good food, watching The Wire... But in watching football, I tap into a long standing passion and a ritual that I took part in before my accident. In fact, were it not for my accident and the reduced price of my season ticket, I would not be there at all. Obviously, I am not advocating spinal cord injury as a way of securing a cheap ticket, but it does feel good to have this connection to my 'old life'.
Especially when we win.

I'm sure you'll forgive me, but my special powers don't extend to telepathy. With this in mind, I thought I should direct you to my latest column on OUCH!

If, on the other hand, you have arrived here from the link on OUCH, then please don't think this is some kind of hilarious circular link jest. Please feel free to browse the rest of the witty, insightful inane drivel that makes up my blog.

OK, a tad melodramatic perhaps. But when people talk about nippers being like little germ factories, I didn't poo-poo. No, I could see the theory. Their rapidly developing systems chew up and spit out viruses at a rate of knots, the emphasis being on spit...

Still, I was ill-prepared for the full significance of this special power. This is all a very long way of saying that I have another cold. My fourth in three months. Sheeeeeeeit. As Clay Davis would say.

P was in France for a couple of nights at the end of last week, so R and I spent two days at home with Wallace and Gromit on DVD, sneezing and snotting over each other. On the plus side, all these colds seem to have improved my powers of recovery, and after a weekend of moping around the house, I am feeling much better. Thank you for asking.

We spent yesterday afternoon down on the South Bank wandering around, happy to be out of the house, watching merry-go-rounds and jugglers. There were also some people doing balloon modelling for children. When a very nice lady festooned with balloon animals and glittery make-up said hello to R from a distance of some ten yards, it was like watching an animal being struck with a tranquiliser dart. R's shyness began with her trying top bury her head in my lap, but soon moved on to total meltdown, as her legs bucled, and she ended up in a silent heap on the ground. I was almost convinced that she had developed sudden narcolepsy.

Once we had saved our precious from 'Scary Balloon Lady' (and she had ridden the merry-go-round), she recovered fully and we listened to the Croydon Male Voice Choir in the foyer of the RFH, before stuffing ourselves with cakes and juice/coffee. I wonder what she will make of it all when she looks back a few years down the line. I hope she won't have globophobia (fear of balloons). Or whatever the word is for 'fear of the Croydon Male Voice Choir. Imagine that coming up on day-time telly...

  

I found this clip enlightening and disturbing. It's from the Royal National Institute for the Deaf, and It's an attempt to recreate the sounds heard by those suffering with tinnitus. If there was ever a good advert for wearing earplugs at gigs and clubs, then this is surely it.

But I imagine having to live with the constant noise of tinnitus is probably in some way comparable with living with constant pain. The inability to escape and have time off except through unconsciousness, which can often be difficult to achieve, especially as symptoms worsen with tiredness.

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...

Yes, dear reader. I choked. There's no point in dressing it up, I should have, could have done better.

It was my first B draw tournament, but still. I won two of my three round-robin matches, and then lost the consolation final. And my best decision all weekend was to steer clear of the Saturday night buffet, which resulted in eighteen people going down with food poisoning, leaving the organisers with a table full of trophies and very few finalists.

 Sadly, even this ill-wind (and worse) didn't result in my winning anything, as the three people ahead of me arrived bright-eyed and bushy tailed on Sunday morning, preventing me winning B division by default as the last man standing (ho ho).

Still, I've only been playing for eight months, so not too shabby, if I'm honest. And it was fun. Some of it. Not the bits where I served three double faults on the spin. And that didn't just happen the once.

Anyways, enough tennis. The best bit of all of this is that my weekend has been remarkably pain free, unless you count aching muscles and blisters on blisters. It must be the endorphins released during physical exercise coupled with so much distraction.

The other high point of the weekend was talking to R on the telephone. It felt really strange, as this is the first time that I have had a proper conversation with her over the phone. In the past, she has tended to rebound between shouting and nodding, neither of which work terrifically well over the phone. Another landmark moment, I suppose...

Yes, the time has come for me to sally forth once more, racket in hand, and demonstrate how completely incapable I am of holding my nerve in a competitive situation.

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.

Early steps in the development of the kind of technology that I think would get me walking again. Rather this than stem-cells for injuries as complete as mine. Not sure how long the batteries last, mind.