Looking Up

Reading matters

Mon, 17 Nov 2008 18:59:11 +0000

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!

Moments of forgetful rapture.

Sat, 08 Nov 2008 19:00:29 +0000

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.

...my own trumpet.

Mon, 03 Nov 2008 11:56:53 +0000

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.

Germ warfare

Mon, 03 Nov 2008 10:29:59 +0000

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...

Nature's own Kraftwerk

Mon, 27 Oct 2008 14:27:49 +0000

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.

Flashback

Mon, 27 Oct 2008 13:09:53 +0000

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...

Ahem. Uhurgh! Uhuagh!

Mon, 20 Oct 2008 14:10:49 +0000

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...

Note: These pictures were taken before the wheels came off. No, not litera...Oh, never mind.

Serving Welsh

Thu, 16 Oct 2008 13:00:49 +0000

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.

This weekend, I shall mostly be serving double faults. On a bed of colourful language with a garnish of incoherent muttering. For those of you who haven't guessed, I am on my way to another tennis tournament, this time in Cardiff.

I have come to the difficult conclusion that I cannot in all conscience describe myself as a novice anymore. I feel that winning a Novice title pretty much rules out the possibility of entering any more Novice divisions. I fear I may have peaked too early, and considered retiring with a 100% record in competition, but like any seasoned pro, I just can't stay away from the game. The glamour, the trophies, the excitement, the international travel, the jetset lifestyle, the rush of winning. All these things I am unlikely to find, especially in the novice draw (well, I did find the trophies, I suppose).

So, this weekend I am entered in the B draw (Thankfully, there is still ahead of me a second draw and a first draw). I fully expect to go out first round, get one consolation match, and be back by Saturday afternoon. We shall see.

Sleep walking

Tue, 07 Oct 2008 17:39:08 +0000

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.

Half-man half-biscuit tin

Sun, 05 Oct 2008 17:58:51 +0000

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.

Well suited

Mon, 29 Sep 2008 20:39:59 +0000

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...

And it was a special day for me, too. My first outing in a suit since my accident. This is not because I am a slob. Even if I am. A bit.

No, the reason I have not worn a suit since my accident is that suits are made to stand up in. They don't lend themselves to the shape of a wheelchair user, with bum-flaps and pockets hanging out here and there, and the lapels riding up like a big mouth when I push the chair, as if my jacket is trying to eat my face off.

I have consulted other wheelchair using suit wearers, and it is possible to get a suit tailored for sitting in, but I don't have the budget or the appointments diary to justify such an extravagance. Instead, I spent the day tucking in and pulling down whenever I moved around. The general opinion seems to suggest that I got away with it...

Even Arsenal's disastrous showing at home to Hull did little to dampen my mood, especially with the champagne flowing. It is slightly disturbing to be so easy to spot in a crowd, as the wheelchair was a bit of a giveaway. Add to that the possibility that they may have read my book, and it can make me feel at a bit of a disadvantage. Mind you, I was warned about this before I put our lives down on paper for the world to scrutinize.

I've entered myself in the Cardiff Wheelchair Tennis tournament, in a vain attempt to force myself to improve my game. I'm even moving up from C/Novice up to the dizzy heights of B. Not sure about this, as I would have won in the novice division, I feel. Ho hum.

Luggage to Catalonia

Sun, 14 Sep 2008 18:21:18 +0000

Last weekend I had a bit on an adventure. In Barcelona, of all places. A close friend (G for anyone who has read my book) is getting married soon, and I joined a crowd of twelve others for a 'Stag' weekend of food and beverage in the Catalan capital.

Easyjet from Gatwick was, well, Easy. I was allowed to sit in the first row, and therefore I could get onto the plane in my own chair and transfer myself into the seat, thus saving on the wait for baggage handlers and 'aisle chairs'. I'm sure the airline has worked out that this means they can turn the flight around quicker, but it certainly works for me.

Barcelona is a magnificent city. It has beautiful architecture, labarynthine side streets and alleyways, bustling markets, Gaudi(obviously), a beach and marina, and all of it is wheelchair accessible. Except the beach. Obviously.

The taxi drivers were unphased by my chair, and happy to stash it in the boot or on the back seat. Most shops and bars were accessible, and the paving and streets, while a bit on the 'cobbly' side, had slopes and ramps subtly incorporated.

We were well received, considering our visit coincided with England playing Andorra in Barcelona on the same weekend, and confused groups of men in England shirts stopping and asking "Where are all the pubs?" No, really.
I felt like saying, "You're in a different country. They have bars. Basically the same thing. I'm sure you'll work it out." I didn't.

I spoke to a taxi driver about the Olympics, and he said that it was one of the best things that had ever happened to Barcelona, and it was certainly obvious that the 'legacy' (that word so often bandied about with regard to the London games) has been successful. The public spaces are generously proportioned, contemporary in style, and well used. One can sense that the people of Barcelona are proud of them.

The other legacy is from the Paralympics, and is in evidence in the many and subtle small scale efforts that have gone into making the city fully accessible. But it is also in evidence in the attitude of the Barcelona taxi drivers. No driving past and refusing to stop if the punter is a wheelchair user, as is the wont of many a London cabbie, sadly. Maybe there's a few more bits of knowledge they should brush up on...

Blowing in the wind...

Wed, 03 Sep 2008 11:37:54 +0000

An interesting and well made point by fellow blogger Andrew in his recent entry.
To be described as inspiring just for getting on with the everyday stuff can make me feel uncomfortable. The first question it begs is,
"What does it inspire you to do, exactly? Cook while sitting down? Or drive the car without using your feet, perhaps?"
I'm sure some people will feel rebuffed by this, but my everyday is dominated by just trying to feel normal. Anything that emphasizes my changed circumstance is jarring and emotionally difficult. Still. Even after three years.

On a more positive note, Andrew does also mention a sport that he has tried and that I would love to try, if only we had a few miles of empty sand nearby...

Fifth column.

Mon, 01 Sep 2008 12:53:05 +0000

It's now up on Ouch, the BBC disability website. It still feels strange for me to be writing for a disability website, because I still find it strange to call myself disabled. As if I'm some kind of outsider, the new kid in school.

I know, silly really. I mean, surely the wheelchair stands as pretty incontrovertible evidence. But here's the thing: I am a complete novice at interacting with the world in such a different way. I still look at shelves and light switches, stairs and ladders, and I instinctively reach for, climb up, generally react in the way I used to before my accident.

That's not to say that I spend my time flopping hopelessly on the floor as I try to put one foot in front of the other, but more that I do these things in my head. I see things as easy to get to when they are nigh on impossible without assistance. And that's just in our home. It's even worse in the big bad world.

But on some level, I like it that way. My miscalculations and misguided optimism at overcoming obstacles links me to my old life, the way I was. The way I still am in my head. Denial? Perhaps... but I'd never admit it. (Geddit?)

That's why I like pictures like the one below. Sure, there's a wheelchair in it, but me? I'm just sitting on the grass...

Jumping the gun

Sun, 31 Aug 2008 17:26:25 +0000

Of course I spoke too soon, as coverage of the Paralympics starts to gear up. Perhaps a concerted attempt to keep the two events separate?

Still, it's good to see the features in many newspapers, mainly from a 'human interest' angle- triumph over adversity, etc. I'm happy about the coverage in general, as this will be my first Paralympics since I broke my back. But then, the fact that I am suddenly more interested speaks volumes about how much of a presence the event had on my radar pre-injury.

That being said, I think my interest has been further kindled by my rubbing shoulders with actual Paralympians. The nature of disability sport making it seem more relevant to my every day experience. It's great that sports which are played by relatively few people around the world get to be seen on such a stage.

On the home front, P has been a Paris pour le weekend. This meant I was home alone with the nipper, and R has been very understanding, even if she has watched a little more television than usual. Ah, the cathode-ray-nanny. Possibly the only way to keep a three year old in one place without ropes,cages and other devices unpopular with social services.

I even relinquished my spot at the Emirates stadium for Arsenal's demolition of Newcastle United. I felt it was important to spend the time with R, and to prove to myself that I was easily capable of looking after her by myself instead of resorting to grand-parntal support.

Suffice to say, I woke up at four a.m. this morning as Spike decided to see if he could be of assistance, and wouldn't take no for an answer. An interesting proposition when it's impossible for me to disappear into an alcohol and sleeper fueled oblivion. I managed to avoid tears for the most part, but it was tough to wince and squirm in front of R, with her hugging me and saying, "Don't worry Daddy," over and over.

Without doubt, pain is the worst aspect of my spinal cord injury. It is debilitating, intimidating, and makes keeping a positive frame of mind extremely difficult. Bah.

On the plus side, I have discovered that the pain won't kill me, and that it subsides to mere irritation (eventually), so if I can cope with seven or eight hours of it, then everything's peachy. Good to know.