Sometimes I wonder how walkies survive without wheelchairs.

I think today I may actually have died of embarrassment if I were not a wheelchair user.

I was in the supermarket. I stood up for a second to reach some cat food off a high shelf. As I sat back down in my chair I heard a tear, and suddenly became aware that my left buttock was colder than my right.

My trousers had ripped down the arse, just to the left of centre. And of course, I was wearing the most hideous pants I own underneath.

My immediate thought was one of relief. Relief that I am a wheelchair user, and could keep my exposed buttock hidden by sitting on it.

This got me thinking about how if I was even more crippled, I'd have been even better off; for if I had been unable to stand to reach that cat food then my trousers wouldn't have ripped as I sat back down. OK, I'd have had to sit there until someone walked past so I could ask them to pass the food. But that's a small price to pay for a warm bum on a snowy day like today.

Some people think that becoming a wheelchair user would be the most embarrassing thing in the world... Ever! Look at all those weirdo's who'd rather be housebound and fully dependent on others just because "Ew! I don't wanna use a wheelchair. I don't wanna look disabled. Gross!"

I would like to run up behind all those people with a knife and slash the back of their trousers to expose their crap pants. Once half of north London has seen their arse, I'd like to ask them then if they still think using a wheelchair would be more embarrassing.

"On behalf of British Airways, I'd like to welcome you to Los Angeles. Oh, but we've lost a bit of your wheelchair."

I found myself remembering the final shot of Serenity as a piece fell away from Serenity itself. A piece about the same shape as the one missing from my wheelchair. I could even picture the Captain, somewhere over the Atlantic, turning to a somewhat unstable co-pilot and saying "What was that?"

As I sat at the customer service desk and they showed little interest in either finding or replacing my skirtguard (like I'm ever gonna wear a skirt. They should call it a buttguard) it all came flooding back to me why I was never going to fly BA again.

In 1997, they lost my suitcase. And then found it about 10 minutes before the deadline by which they'd have to compensate me. Of course, I didn't get it for a couple more days by the time it had been sent to the hotel.

I'm not much of a crier, but, yesterday I did discover the power of turning on the waterworks. As the tears rolled the Duty Manager fo BA pulled me outside, whipped out his mobile (or "cell" I suppose over here) and called the manufacturers of my chair - who handily happen to be here in California (which does make it somewhat slow when Camden and Islington Wheelchair Service have to order parts to be sent to the UK. Maybe I should stock up on spare wheels while I'm here?). As the LA sun baked dry the tears on my cheeks, he was getting a quote for a replacement part. He still wanted me to buy it and claim the money back when I pass through San Francisco airport on my way home in a couple of weeks, but at least a weeping girly prompted him to at least be somewhat helpful.

The irony is of course, once I got out of my chair to load it into a shuttle to head for the youth hostel, the buttguard fell out of the backrest. How the hell it got in the backrest I do not know. But, hey. I got got bemused look as I shrieked with excitement at the shuttle driver who presumably thought me less than sane getting excited over a funny shaped bit of plastic. Those two hours of weeping and trying to elicit some kind of helpful response from anyone working for BA were for nothing.

I'm in California. It is sunny. I am indoors. Must fix that.