September 2009 Archives

My latest piece for The Times today.


The article, like the In The picture campaign is not seeking to 'regulate' children's books, but rather to offer the resources to provide some balance. I also acknowledge that the children who carry out such mindless harassment as was seen in the Fiona Pilkington case are not necessarily avid readers of books.

But the point I would make is that while it may not be possible to influence such people directly, children's books can help to shape wider social attitudes by introducing children to disability and the diverse nature of the society around them. If children grow up learning more tolerance, then that can help to define what they as adults will deem acceptable or unacceptable behaviour.

To offer an example: If, instead of the Pilkington family, there had been a soldier back from Afghanistan with a disability caused by a conflict injury, what would the attitude have been from the family that were mainly responsible for the harassment?

Tolerance shouldn't be something that has to be earned, nor should it be something that has to be dictated. Rather, tolerance is a symptom of community cohesion and our sense of responsibility for each other.

Spent the weekend down in Exmoor with the Back Up Trust.

Anyone who has read my book may remember the chapter about my week away with them back in 2006 and the impact it had on me at the time. With this in mind, it felt like a real right of passage to be back at the same venue at the same time of year to do the same course.

The only difference being that this time I was there as a wheelchair skills trainer, teaching people how to go up and down kerbs, negotiate threshold steps, go down steps, up stairs, and even how to fall out of your chair while playing basketball (well, someone had to, and I'm something of an expert...).

This was my first time as an instructor, and I got a tremendous amount out of the whole experience, watching the participants' confidence increasing over the course of three days. It was especially good to see the sense of achievement after we took them for an eight and a half kilometer push along a coastal path, all very up and down and filled with mud, loose stones and plenty of sunshine.

So now I am determined to continue to make my contribution, hopefully helping other people with SCI to surpass their aspirations.

As the rain continues to fall, and I fear we are at the beginning of six months under the grey blanket of a wet winter, I find myself comforted by the fact that I don't have to go out and dig holes in someone' garden as in times of old.

It is a bittersweet comfort, as I would happily give up good weather if it meant I regained the physical attributes required to dig a hole. Especially as one of the pleasures involved in garden construction is coming home wet and muddy, and being able to shed the waterproofs for a hot shower and a cup of tea, and a pair of furry slippers.

Of course I can still go out and get wet and muddy. In fact, if I go out when it's raining, it's virtually impossible not to get wet and muddy. Unless waterproof trousers/bin-liners are worn, then a wet lap is pretty inevitable, especially as holding an umbrella means going around in circles.

And once home, it's more difficult to shed the outer layers. I have a dream that one day I will have a big enough hall/a garage and a second wheelchair to 'change into', but in the meantime it's a question of circles on the doormat and an old rag before I can get back into the house.

And furry slippers are just wasted on me these days.

Oh, and if you are wondering about the title of this drizzly missive, it was a flash of sunshine that filled the room when Penny showed me a garden ornament described thus. I mean, at least we aren't using the world's finite resources to fill our lives with useless junk...

I can't go without expressing my disappointment at the behaviour of Mr. Adebayor during the Arsenal v Man. City game.

Yes, everyone knew what he was going to do when he scored, but his subsequent statement that after scoring, the emotion is such that "For maybe two or three seconds I can't control myself." would suggest that he's in the wrong sport. Look out Usain Bolt, because by my calculations, Adebayor can run 100 meters in 3.3 seconds. That's impressive.

As impressive as the loyalty he showed Arsenal by never getting anywhere near that speed while he played in red and white, and showing his loyalty with such statements as "Yes, I'm under contract to Arsenal - but it's up to the directors to satisfy my demands. Barcelona have made me a good financial offer. If Arsenal give me what I want, I stay. If they don't, I leave." made back in 2008.

And, yes, the Arsenal fans shouldn't behave the way they did, but everyone in football knows what the reaction will be. In view of the recent events in the game between West Ham and Millwall, inciting the crowd is pretty irresponsible. Almost as irresponsible as releasing a film that glorifies the 'Good Old Days' of football violence. Well done The Firm. A real cynic might even toy with the totally unfounded theory that the producers helped with the 'kick-off' between West Ham and Millwall.

All this aside, I was most shocked by his deliberate stamping on Robin van Persie's face. It was clear from the warm-up that there was no love lost between him and his former team-mates, but I reckon the theory that he was a disruptive influence at Arsenal seems all the more plausible after the weekend's events.

We spent a very enjoyable afternoon at Butterfly World yesterday. The landscaping is really interesting, although the drive in is almost the best bit, with the sides of the drive crammed with wildflowers of every conceivable size and colour.

The different areas within are full of some really original design features, and the Future Gardens show that is currently on showed a range of interesting garden designs (obviously, none of them quite as good as our design which wasn't selected). The show is more interesting than Chelsea or any of the other weekend/week long shows, as the future garden exhibits remain open to the public for several months, so they have to be properly designed, constructed and planted. None of the old 'stick some screwed up newspaper under the pot until after the judging'.

By now, it is obvious which gardens have fared well, but the whole site is still in a period of transition, which is not to say that it isn't a great day out. But what struck me is that the ambitious plans for an enormous dome seemed like a big venue just for butterflies.

Then we went into the modestly sized tropical butterfly house. The effect of being surrounded by the most beautiful butterflies fluttering from flower to flower was really profound. Everyone had a smile on their faces as they watched the little (and not so little) flashes of iridescent colour gliding and diving around. I really hope the whole project is a success, and I wish them well.

Rosalie's first day at school...

I'm rightly proud of her, but perhaps equally proud of myself. I did not spend the day choking back tears and wondering where all the time went.

"Ah, they grow up so fast."

But they really do. Or rather, it's not that they grow up fast, as that they grow up at all that seems to cause the lament. Just when one gets used to one phase of the life of a child, they come out the other side and rush headlong for the next episode.

As a parent, much of the time is devoted to looking forward to their first words, first steps, first picture, first paycheck, etc. The problem is, the last time they do something passes before you realise.

Now, obviously I'm not talking last steps, last words, etc. That'd be too dark even for me. What I am referring to is the time when they crawled and gargled and grinned a toothless grin as they rubbed baby rice into the sofa. You fall in love with their funny noises and cute smiles, and then they introduce a whole new package of functions to familiarise yourself with. Offspring 2.0 or somesuch.

That the day passed off more peacefully than I expected was probably largely due to my having to be anywhere at eight forty-five in the morning, which meant that I was in some kind of a daze until after the school gate farewell.

Needless to say, she cruised through the day, and answered our eager requests for information with either:

a) "fine."

or

b) "I can't remember."


Not so some of the other children. One of whom was weeping first thing this morning, and weeping at 3.20 when he came out. I can only assume that the staff had him on some kind of saline drip all day to stop him drying out and leaving the school looking like Mother Theresa. It breaks yer heart. F'sure.

I am convinced this was a false start, and day 2 will be the challenge, or day 3, day 4, etc.

I must also confess to having spent most of the day hovering by the phone, secretly hoping that the school would call to say the our best beloved was inconsolable, and unable to live without our company for a whole day. Be careful what you wish for, I suppose...

...of the accidental variety.

Some can be helpful, such as coffee and a deadline.

Others? Well, let's just say the jury's out. It would seem less fortuitous to have a late night visit by me old mate Spike last night. Enough to make me reach for half a vitamin Z, but all that did was make me too dopey to reach for t'other half.

And so I enjoyed a night of squirming semi-consciousness punctuated with stabbing pains down both legs. As a result, I have spent most of today in a state of tiredness, and managed little more than pumping up the tyres on my wheelchair and roasting a chicken. Luckily I was awake enough not to roast the tyres and pump up the chicken. But it isn't this peculiar combination I am referring to..

No, it was the altogether rash decision (considering my dazedness) to watch a particular film tonight. I am referring to the rather fine 'Gonzo-The life and work of Dr. Hunter S. Thompson'.

Rest assured, I am not about to start collecting guns or adding magic mushrooms and peyote buttons to my recipe for roast chicken. It is more a nagging sense of gloom at the state of things. The film's very fair comparisons between the presidencies of Nixon and Bush Jr. are very well observed, although in truth it wasn't fear and loathing on the campaign trail which did for the former, but rather straight forward investigative journalism by Robert Redford and Dustin Hoffman.

As for Bush, while Jon Stewart must surely take a smidgeon of credit for helping to depose the psychotic idiot, there is a nagging feeling that we are lacking a voice infused with enough piss and vitriol to resonate with the kind of rage that should be present. For while Dr. Thompson would still have been just one small, quirky, counter-cultural voice, at least he wouldn't be waiting, doe-eyed and innocent, for the next Whitehouse visionary to be hamstrung by the system.

And, once you clear away the alcohol and drug-fuelled fog, the man could write, too. For anyone who hasn't read it, I would heartily recommend The Rum Diary. It offers an insight into the writer before the legend was born.

So, this is my point. In case you haven't guessed it. I am now tap-tap-tapping away through my own, far less glamorous haze of a double drop of Tramadol and a small glass of whisky, waiting for sleep to claim me and reset the pain clock. And wondering if this is the beginning of another period of closer 'friendship' from Spike, with his love for surprise late night appearances.

Tomorrow is another day, and I'm sure all will be well in the world once more. Well, once I get over being woken up by an eager and well rested 4 year old bouncing on me and pelting me with soft toys, only to discover the hangover I have already prepared.

Yep, zippin' up my boots, etc.

We spent a very relaxing couple of days in Norfolk over the weekend. Which is where one part of my tribe is from. All farmers and clergy, from what I can gather. Plough the fields and scatter...

Anyway, the weekend involved various adventures.

We spent a good few hours in the East Ruston Old Vicarage Gardens. The gardens evolved and spread over a number of years, creating interesting views, bewildering changes from formal to informal planting, confusing hedges and fantastic views. And all of it refreshingly uncompromised by direction signage or labeling.

Suffice to say, I got horribly lost. With R on my lap, we spent at least half an hour going around in elaborate circles. I was glad to be using the powertrike, so it was battery rather than bicep that got run down.

In my defence, we were frequently confounded by steps which prevented our escape. But still, I think the old 'Captain Compass' moniker sticks.

Our other big adventure was a trip to the beach, this time making use of the adapted remains of an old powertrike which now consists of a lightweight front wheel that serves to lift my small casters off the ground, allowing me to push over much rougher ground, and even sand. Up to a point.

Mind you, once that point has been reached, the handlebars make it easier for eager volunteers to grab a hold and yank my sorry arse out of the dunes. Over all, this simple piece of kit has turned out to be one of the most effective and satisfying wheelchair modifications to date.

Last Thursday was also something of a milestone as I delivered my first course as a Back Up wheelchair skills trainer. It felt great to be able to go back into a spinal unit and hopefully offer the kind of inspiration that I drew from my first encounter with Back Up.

Next month, I am going one step further, as I will be one of the trainers on a multi-activity week in Exmoor. As anyone who has read my book may remember, I went on this course back in 2006, and it was a really important experience that gave me the confidence to face the challenges associated with a more adventurous life on wheels.

Anyways, back to the subject of ancestry. My father found this picture of a relative from the Dutch side of the family (more farmers and clergy) by name of Jane Janes van Slooten, a merchant and sugar-refiner in Leeuwarden.
The light reading under his chubby fingers is a guide to agricultural practice rather than the Bible.
Now I know what to do when my hairline disappears over the horizon. Might even adopt a frilly cuff, too.