I'm finding it hard to adjust to being back in the real world.

I know I was only on a FOCUS project for 6 days... And that was nearly a month ago. But I still haven't quite gotten into the swing of being back in reality.

One of the things I love most about FOCUS is that the staff and other volunteers simply see me as me. They respect me for my knowledge, skills and experience and don't judge me on the basis of my impairment. If you're disabled and reading this I'm sure you can appreciate straight away how far removed such a simple thing is from day-to-day life.

I've been fortunate enough to be able to spend some quality time with other volunteers that were there since the project. LilWatcherGirl and I went to see Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix at the IMAX together, for example.

"Right, you hide, I'll hail the bus. When the driver gets the ramp out, appear and get on behind me before the driver has the chance to close the doors!"

Because London buses only have one wheelchair space. As we wandered towards the bus stop we had a little discussion about how we were both going to fit in the one space. Oh, if you can catch a bus without having to have a strategic planning meeting you really don't know what you're missing.

It was coming home from the cinema that night that I really missed being in a FOCUS bubble for the first time. Sure, the project didn't exactly run smoothly (*cough* understatement *cough*) but there were some amazing people there. As LWG and I boarded at the rear ramped door, LWG's OtherArf, being a walkie, boarded at the front door. I heard the driver ask her "Where are they getting off?"

If I wasn't so throughly exhausted (this was a Tuesday, on the Sunday night I'd been up all night with sinus pain, and on the Monday I'd been up all night from taking Sudafed which is kinda like speed) I'd have burst into a screamy rage at him. How dare the driver ask someone else questions about me?

For the record, I don't take sugar.

But, I was too exhausted to fly off the handle. Instead I sat and pondered how much the real world sucks.

The bank holiday weekend was awesome. 4 of us volunteers spent the weekend together in Manchester. I don't really drink much alcohol these days; in fact, so little that I'd kept track of all the alcohol I'd drunk so far this year.

Until the bank holiday. Good times.

Being with a group of FOCUSy types out in the real world is kinda strange, but also very cool.

Being out in the real world I was subjected to the usual rubbish: people patting me sympathetically on the shoulder, people grabbing me and trying to push me, etc, etc. But, I had my bodyguards! Oh yes.

On the Sunday night we were indulging in some dirty street drinking (seeing as none of us could afford bar prices). Being FOCUS folk we all know the FOCUS dance routine to "Shake a Tail Feather" (from The Blues Brothers). And, having had a few drinks we decided that dancing to it on Canal Street would be a wonderful idea.

So, there we were quite happily getting our twist on, minding our own business, dancing away. When some guy decides that he wants to grab the-lady-in-the-wheelchair and start pushing her around. Before I could even start screaming I heard:

"Oi! Fuck off! Do one!"

My bodyguards came to my rescue. Good times. Unfortunately it ruined our dance and destroyed any chance of applause from our audience.

I wish I could take those 3 dirty street drinking scum chums with me wherever I went. Unfortunately 2 live in Manchester and the other in Cambridge. I could've done with them on Friday night when at a Treasure Tones gig some creepy drunk guy decided that I was wonderful. *shudder*

Dust. High in fat? Low in fat? Dust?

I really should be cleaning my flat. It looks slightly like a bomb has gone off in here.

I returned on Thursday after roaming round the country for a fortnight (Clacton, Leicester, a FOCUS project in Penistone which is the 2nd best named town in the country after Cockermouth, Leicester, Clacton, Manchester, Clacton) and just threw my stuff everywhere. Although to be fair the place was a tip before I went away.

The good news is though... I can't clean! I have been forbidden from taking any antihistamines until after I've been to the hospital on Monday, which means I can't be sending dust up into the air.

Last time I had an allergy test the nice staff at the Royal Throat, Nose and Ear Hospital failed to tell me that you're not supposed to take antihistamines for 3 days prior to the test (and I'm a bit thick so it didn't cross my mind) so they just stuck a load of needles in my arm for nothing. I didn't even react to being stuck with pure histamine.

So, having been antihistamine free for 24 hours so far I'm trying to avoid all allergens. I'm a bit afraid of leaving my flat because there are flowery things all down the street outside my building and they'll make me sneeze my little head off.

So, instead of cleaning, I'm going to take this opportunity to blog about shoes. I know it's a subject I've blogged about before, but after my footwear traumas of this week, I think it's a topic worth revisiting.

When going down hills in my chair I put my right foot on the floor and use it as a brake. This means I get through right shoes rather quickly (and still have an immaculate left one. If anyone knows anyone with no right foot and a size 4 left one that wants some shoes, I've got plenty).

At Kingswood Peak Venture (the site for this summer's FOCUS project) there was a wicked mean evil hill that I had to push up/roll down about a million times a day. The good news is that from pushing up it I now have the upper body strength of Arnold Schwarzenegger (can you believe I spelled that right first time?!?). However, from rolling down the hill and using my right foot as a brake, I completely wore through the sole of my right trainer. This made shoe shopping a rather urgent thing to do once I re-entered the real world.

Then on Monday night whilst in Clacton at my parents I had a somewhat unfortunate incident involving cat food and my left shoe. So Tuesday really, definitely meant New Shoe Day.

Shopping for shoes is usually quite fun. They're the one piece of clothing I can shop for and not come home crying about how I'm too fat. This was before I'd experienced shoe shopping in Colchester.

I scoured the town high and low looking for some Skechers. In the end I did find some in Barrats, but they were all hideously girly. And, well, I'm not.

I decided my best bet was Office. Amazingly I'm not banned from the chain of stores as the last time I went in a branch I was wired and doing a report for Five Live about inaccessible shops. And I did make them and their employees look rather stupid.

So, there I was sitting in the trainers section in the corner of the store browsing. Unsurprisingly seeing as how I was deep in the heart of Essex, most of the trainers on sale were white. This narrowed down my selection somewhat as I'm not overly proud of being an Essex Girl, and it's not neccessarily something I want people to know about me as soon as they look at me.

But, my selection got narrowed down even more. Once I'd ruled out the possibility of wearing white, most of what was left were velcro trainers. I sat there thinking "well, I can't buy velcro trainers, I'm too crippy. I'm gonna look like I've been given them by an Occupational Therapist because I can't tie my own laces." It was bad enough on the FOCUS project last week when we went 10 Pin Bowling and I had to wear velcro shoes because my feet are so small I'm not supposed to be old enough to tie laces.

I was left with a choice of 2 pairs of trainers. One black with blue stars all over them, and one black with pink hearts all over them (and a little skull and crossbones in each heart). I opted for the latter because they seemed more "me" - at the moment I seem to be going through a phase of wearing predominantly pink on my feet.

I informed the shop assistant of my choice and asked if I could keep my new shoes on, seeing as how the old ones were somewhat gross. The shop assistant wouldn't even go near them and made me put the old ones in the box. They're still in there actually. I'd planned on taking them home and throwing them in the washing machine to get the cat food off, and keeping them in case I ever found myself painting or doing something equally messy that required old shoes. But they've been sealed in that box for 4 days now, and I'm scared of opening it. I think I may just have to burn them.

With my new shoes on I rather spontaneously headed up to Manchester to see some singery songwritery types gigging. All night I got compliments of "Cool Vans!" But I couldn't muster up a very enthusiastic response.

The pain had already begun.

I spent the night up in Manchester sleeping on a friend's sofa. At one point I woke up in so much pain I decided to see if gravity would help my ankle and went back to sleep with my legs cocked sideways over the back of the couch.

My theory is that my foot has gotten so used to the nice, comfy arch support in my old Skechers, it now can't cope without it. Or it could just be a random coincidence that my ankle started hurting shortly after I put my new shoes on. After all, my ankle does hurt quite a lot quite often what with there not actually being a proper joint there anymore (it got completely smashed about 20 years ago and is now just a smoosh of bone not resembling a joint in any way).

I guess I've got to go shoe shopping again this week to find some with better arch supports. This time I will not be shopping in Essex.

Happy Halloween!

As some of you may have already seen, this article that I wrote was published last Thursday.

On Saturday morning, I could've kicked myself - except the floor was wet, and to kick oneself involves standing on only one leg... and wet floors have a long history of slipping me over and beating me up.

I was volunteering on a FOCUS project over the weekend. On Saturday morning I rolled myself out of bed and dragged my sorry, sleepy self into the accessible shower room.

I had my shower, and the high poweredness of it managed to blast most of the sleep from the corners of my eyes. I got out, got dressed, and went to brush my hair:-

There was no mirror.

I had no idea what I looked like as I was trying to drag my fluffy locks back into a ponytail.

Just like a vampire.

Everyone knows that vampires cast no reflection, but something that's little known except for by wheelchair users is that accessible toilets rarely have mirrors in them; and if they do, they're too high to see your reflection from sitting in a wheelchair (well, except for the few that have a full length mirror right opposite the toilet so you get to see far more of yourself than you would like to whilst trying to do what you went in there to do).

Remember in Angel when the gang went to Pylea, an alternate universe where vampires can sunbathe and see their own reflections? Remember Angel's shock at seeing his hairdo for the first time in nearly 250 years?

That was kinda how I felt when I caught my reflection in a window late Saturday morning.

This was where the desire to kick myself came in "that's another parallel between vampirism and disability!" my inner monologue screamed in my ears. But, sadly, it was too late as the article had been published.

Damn.

Edit: This made me laugh.

Over the last week I've had the following exchange more times than I can actually count. I'm mainly posting this post as a public information announcement, so, should you ever meet me, you don't ask me the same bloody stupid question.

Me: I'm a vegetarian.

Them: Do you eat fish?

I know Kurt Cobain claimed that "It's OK to eat fish, cos they don't have any feelings."

He did also blow his own brains out. Remember that.