It's my birthday dammit! I'm supposed to get stuff, I'm not supposed to be expected to give my money away!

What did I get in the post this morning? A council tax bill. Woohoo. No shiny cards for Lisy. Nope. Just a demand for over a grand.

And then a little while ago I had a chugger at my door. She was scrounging for Greater London Fund for the Blind.

She started off by asking if I was the millionaire she'd been looking for. "I live in a council flat, it's 3pm, I'm at home and still in my pyjama's."

I then explained that I don't support charities that beg on behalf of disabled people, I'm much more in favour of rights.

Apparently if she wasn't scrounging at my door "The Blind" wouldn't have 'the right' to work in Sainsbury's or Asda because without her begging "The Blind" wouldn't have "braille tills and stuff" so "The blind" would have to sit at home all day. "And that's not fair or right, is it?"

She'd not heard of Access to Work and didn't believe me that it existed.

She then proceeded to ask about my impairment, and then informed me that "you'll do fine with your pretty face..." Nice to know. I'll remember that next time I can't get somewhere I want to go. "But I'm pretty!" I shall shout, and all access barriers shall melt away before me.

So that's why "The Blind" need her begging on their behalf? Because they're not pretty enough? Why is she begging for money for equipment then? Access to Work could fund that, so, surely, she should be begging to make "The Blind" more pretty to make them more employable? "Pah to having access to documents in braille. What you really need is braces to make your grin less toothy then people will be falling over themselves to employ you."

Somehow, I think not.

Today marks the 10 year anniversary of my having left school.

Sadly I have no Romy and Michele-esque reunion to attend. Actually, not sadly at all as no-one I know from school lives in London so we wouldn't be able to have a road-trip with cool 80's music. Of course, it was during the 90's I went to secondary school, so a road trip with a Romy and Michele-esque 80's soundtrack would be badly misplaced. I could go to a primary school reunion with an 80's soundtrack... but that 10 year departure milestone is way past. And why would I want to see anyone from primary school anyway?

My soundtrack for a journey to a high school reunion would have to basically just be The Cranberries album 'No Need To Argue,' with a few tracks from Nirvana's 'Nevermind' and perhaps 'Ice Ice Baby' to acknowledge my first couple of years at secondary school. What a trendy and hip kid I was.

"Grime, stains and limescale"

On the front of a bottle of Cillit Bang, they're the things it claims it can tackle. And it does pretty well, especially on rust stains, which I had to try and remove from my kitchen sink after an incident with a rusty-bottomed saucepan (I bought a full-length mirror to check if it was contagious seeing as how I'm apparently a "wheelchair person", rust could prove problematic). Nothing else worked. I even tried leaving bleach in there for days, and all that happened was my previously silver sink turned slightly white.

I've found Cillit Bang's weakness. Melted cheese. Will not shift it (though will stain the cheese pink if you're looking for novel ideas for how to make your buffet that bit special).

My project for this week has basically been clearing up the detritus after an incident involving an exploding toasted cheese sandwich on Monday. That'll teach me to leave cooking food unattended while I go to answer the phone. Or perhaps more importantly it'll teach me never to do that again. I always thought the phrase "that'll teach you" was lacking in some explanatory notes.

Of course, while the sandwich toaster was still hot, cleaning up the mess on it and the surrounding area wasn't possible - I'm already bearing one burn on my hand from stupidly touching one of its hotplates whilst the plate was, well, hot... I didn't need to add to that. That was one lesson I'd already learned. But, of course, as the toaster cooled, so did the cheese. And it became hard (oo er).

I quickly decided that the picking at the cheese with my fingernails was not an option that was going to work. Why? Because as tiny as my hands are, I can't actually fit my fingers inside the hinges of the toaster where most of the cheese resides. The attack needed to be chemical...

"Cillit Bang!" I thought. "After all, it cleaned up rust, surely it can dissolve away a bit of molten Emmental."

Nope. Apparently its grease dissolving powers do not stretch as far as the fat in cheese. Which now makes me worry how my body copes with digesting it. Or... maybe I should try throwing up on the sandwich toaster and letting my stomach acids have a crack at removing the cheese that Cillit Bang just can't handle.

And being a sucker for a quality advertising campaign, currently vomiting for me shouldn't be difficult. I really believed that Cillit Bang was a miracle cleaning product that could make my kitchen shine (and remove exploded cheese), but this week I've fallen for an advertising campaign that didn't require any leap of faith at all. This week I fell for the "buy this product and you'll get something shiny" approach.

Yup, on Tuesday in Sainsbury's (no longer my local Sainsbury's, but still my preferred... and nothing to do with the fact that I hope I might bump into Sharleen Spiteri in there again) I found myself knowingly buying a breakfast cereal containing an ingredient to which I am allergic, just because I wanted the DVD that came free with it. Yup, I'm that much of a sucker.

A friend of mine came over to strip this afternoon (wallpaper, people, please... minds out of the gutter. My mother reads this) and she wasn't at all surprised by my purchase of poisonous substances. She was however shocked and appalled that I'd bought poisonous substances made by an unethical company ergo I couldn't offload a box of fruity flakes (DVD removed, obviously) onto her.

Anyone wanna sleep over just so I can make them breakfast? I have surplus cereal. Toasted cheese sandwiches however are not on the menu.

To be sung to the tune of The Mustard song from the Buffy musical:

Me:
I've got my broadband back!

Chorus:
She's got her broadband back!

Dum dum dum dum!

(Shame my bathroom is still only half redecorated)

The movies may be clever, but the staff sure ain't.

Me: "Can I have a black coffee please?"

Her: "Certainly, one black coffee coming up."

[time elapses]

Her: There you are, one black coffee. Would you like milk in that?

While I may be sensible enough to spend my free time sitting in poncy cinema cafés drinking coffee, a very silly friend of mine is running the London Marathon this weekend. You can read his blog of his training here, and thanks to the wonders of modern technology, you can sponsor him online here. Or you can just go marvel at the celebs he's sucked into sponsoring him.

London's buses are currently covered in posters promoting The Ring Two.

I haven't seen it yet, chances are I won't get around to seeing it until it comes out on DVD.

But the posters are making me reminisce.

Remember when The Ring was released a couple of years ago? Do you remember the tag line?

"Before you die, you see The Ring"

So... does that mean that all those who've never seen it are blessed with immortality?

I knew there was a reason to not watch Hollywood remakes...

I'm thinking of hiring myself out as a service to distressed parents everywhere.

Yes.

I can't believe no careers advisor ever suggested it. Stupid people all telling my I'd be lucky to get a secretarial post and that would be all I was capable of.

It's perfect.

I realised this the other day. I was entering my building, and before I'd even opened the door I could see the legs of a small child dangling through the bannisters as I looked through the window in the door... and from out in the street I could hear the sounds of this child being ridiculously obnoxious.

The door swings open, and in comes The Lady With The Wheelchair who's just moved into the ground floor flat. It was like the child had a mute button and someone suddenly pressed it. His mouth fell open and he just stared as I entered my flat. As soon as I was out of his line of vision, before I'd even actually closed my flat door, the din of an obnoxious small child started up again. And the staircase has quite a hefty echo going on. It's like some spooky cave (and it smells like one too).

This was when I hit on the idea that muting small children could be my life's calling.

After all, it wasn't the first time this has happened. Half a term ago, some friends and I had a remarkably cultured afternoon. We had afternoon tea at Shakespeare's Globe, followed by a wander around the Tate Modern. As I was with an English teacher, a literary obsessive and a borderline genius, spending time in The Globe could've been very intimidating for someone as thick and uncultured as me. Fortunately we just ate, sang a bunch of songs from the Buffy musical (so, there's 4 lesbians sitting in Shakespeare's Globe singing "His penis got diseases from a Chumash Tribe!") and left.

The Tate Modern was a more eye-opening experience. Especially as we headed straight for the exhibit about nakedness. Where else could we start out?

It was while we were wondering around here, trying to decide if one statue was actually meant to be representing a naked disabled female body, or if they arm had just fallen off it, that I encountered another noisy, obnoxious small... thing.

We were in the Tate Modern, a building full of visual stimuli. And what is it that the child gets so engrossed in staring at that she forgets to make a din for a few moments? Me. I'm more gawp-worthy than art. They should plaster me on the side of buses. Well, not the actual me... that would be cold and no doubt painful, I mean an image of me.

The list of encounters just goes on. I was once shopping in The Chimes (when I lived in Uxbridge. It's not worthy of an excursion, trust me), and from around the corner I could hear the sounds of a brat, fully engrossed in proper tantrum of temper. I rounded aforementioned corner, and said brat opened her eyes between full blown screams just long enough to catch sight of moi. Silence suddenly spread across the shopping centre (well, almost, there was still dreadful muzak) until I'd left her line of vision, and then she suddenly remembered she was pissed about something.

See. I have skills. Anyone wanna give me some part-time work?

I hate moving house.

That is all.

Do you ever realise that you have a talent, and then think "Actually, I'd have been more than happy going through my whole life without knowing I could do that."?

My most recently discovered skill: Covering over with bin bags gaping holes in the passenger sides of cars where a large piece of glass should be.

Yes long term blog readers, I am once again the victim of crime. For those of you that haven't been reading since the very beginning, just after I started keeping my blog a friend had her bag stolen from under a table in a pub in Soho (while she was drunkenly demanding hugs from Someone Off The Telly), and it happened to have my cashcard in it. And victim support wrote to me and offered me counselling for the trauma.

"Why would anyone want to break into Lisy's car?" I hear you cry. I mean, even if there was anything valuable in it, you wouldn't be able to spot it because of the huge piles of litter.

The villains spotted something shiny on my dashboard. Had I left twinkly, valuable looking earrings? No. That shiny thing was a laminated piece of paper. That was all they took.

I mean, for fucks sake! Be a self-respecting criminal, have some self-esteem! Take the radio, the CD's out of the glove box. Hell, even steal the £95 Specsavers sunglasses (though, of course, the prescription may not match yours, but you've already demonstrated your glass smashing skills). Stealing something that cost Camden Council about 50p to knock up seems pretty fucking pointless, you no-brained nutsack.

You could even be a nice criminal and steal some of the empty Diet Pepsi cans and Ginsters Pasty wrappers that clog up my passenger footwell.

But, your pointless theivery means that I now have to pay £100 excess (or is it £50 now I've turned 25? I can't remember) to replace a piece of glass, just so you could get your mitts on something that you could've made at home if only you'd paid studious enough attention to Blue Peter. Pathetic little wanksock.

OK, so that piece of laminated paper means you get a better parking space. But, surely, with the energy you exerted in breaking into my car, surely you could just walk from one row further in the car park. I'm amazed you could be bothered to patrol the streets of Islington looking for crip-owned cars. But maybe you already know that the police are even more apathetic than you, and they "don't bother checking for fingerprints on just a car."

There's even a website whose ad on Google promises:

Want a Blue Badge?
www.UK-Driving-Secrets.com Get one even if you're not disabled New guide reveals secrets. £17.95!

Though, I'm sure the guide probably suggests "scout round Islington looking for cars displaying Blue Badges. Smash, grab."

And I have the joy of knowing that not only do I have to pay the excess, but also, first thing tomorrow morning, I'm going to get a parking ticket for parking right outside my own house without having my blue badge on display. Hurrah.

All for 50p's worth of laminated paper. Doesn't that make you feel so great about the world we live in.

Though, I am slightly comforted by the knowledge of the torture that the thief is going to face. Yup, the blue badge has a photo of my face on the back. And I pity anyone that has to look at that.

My personal space is very important to me. I love it. I'd be so happy if I could live in my own little bubble which no one could burst, unless I let them because they were nice people that didn't say silly things or have body odour. (Me have only-child issues, much?)

Late last year I wrote an article about people invading it. I think the most commonly used word in my vocabulary is “I’vegotitI’vegotitI’vegotit” as I try to make people who want to "help" get their hands off my sodding wheelchair. But when I wrote that, I was thinking more about non-disabled people. But non-disabled people aren't the only people that think that me being disabled allows them a license to come up and chat to me. I never know how to react when someone in a wheelchair comes up to me the in street and says "is that a Quickie?" (At least I hope they're saying "is that a," rather than “fancy a.” The hazards of having Auditory Processing Disorder, though that would explain why some people look shocked when I say “yes.”)

Sometimes I don't mind, like the time the woman came up to me in Camden Town and asked if I knew the details of the local wheelchair service. Of course I didn't, it was before I moved to Camden, I was just on an “I'm a student therefore shopping at Camden Market is compulsory," excursion. But that was informational, I can see why she would ask me that. It would be a random question to ask someone non-disabled, or someone not using a wheelchair, unless it was your GP I guess.

But why do other disabled people assume that I'm going to be chatty, just because I'm ‘one of them’? I don't care where you bought your wheelchair, how much it cost, or how long it was before it first broke! All I care about is being left alone and getting home in peace. Thank you.

Lesbians don't do this. When someone passes me in the street and I register on their gaydar, they don't come up and ask me “how long have you been out?” Or “how old were you when you started shagging women?” The most I get is a knowing smile. So why do disabled people think it's OK?

Whinging aside, I would like to thank the disabled guy who tried chatting me up yesterday evening at a bus stop while I was on my way to a gig. I'm thankful because talking about him on stage provided me with the biggest laugh of my whole set.

I can guarantee absolutely anyone that if they chat me up at a bus stop, I will write them off as a weirdo and try anything in my power to make them go away (sadly my power is limited to refusing to make eye contact and praying the bus will come). Especially if they open with “You're gorgeous. You know, I've had a relationship with someone in a wheelchair before.” It's kinda gonna leave me thinking “you're not interested in my wit and intellect, are you? You only want me for my wheels."

It would appear that I was this man's dream woman (ha!) He informed me that not only does he like women in wheelchairs, he also has a thing for glasses. God I should've come out of him. If he knew I was a lesbian I bet I'd have been his wank fantasy for months. Actually, suddenly uncomfortable, don't want to think about it. Ewww.

I firmly believe that being chatted up by, well, the kind of people that would chat someone up at a bus stop is the kind of situation, where it is always morally right to lie your arse off. So that is precisely what I did. I told him that I was in a relationship. Anyone that has ever met me before would know that that is a blatant lie because I'm so unattractive. But he fell for it, clutched his baguette tighter to his chest and backed away. The power of my untruths. Didn't of course stop him from staring at me the whole time I was getting on the bus. But I'm used to that. Unusually though, I'm not sure if he was gawping out of “ooo, that's what the ramps do” curiosity, or if he just thought I was fit.

The moral of this story: Do not assume that I'm friendly and approachable. I am in fact evil through and through. Yes. Now it's late, and I'm going to snuggle with my teddies. Fear my wrath.

I got my revenge on bicycle boy, hooray!

For those not familiar with the back story, I live in a completely inaccessible bedsit, and the guy in the room next to me has a tendency to clog up the entire hallway with his bicycle.

For the last nine months, I've has to leave my wheelchair in the boot of my car, and hobble into my building, because I can't fit my chair through the obscenely narrow door into my "flat," (a side note: I should've gotten an almost equally inaccessible council flat today, but, of course, with Lisy Luck... I'm still here in the cupboard with the mice).

Well, today I couldn't leave my chair in the boot of my car. It's snowing (fucking weather. I wanna live in LA. Except for the earthquakes. And everyone has fake boobs (even the lesbians)), and me walking into the house would almost certainly wind up with me riding in an ambulance what with the being rubbish at walking and having the bones that break easily and all. To remedy the problem of having to walk into my house, a pretty lady did offer to let me sleep in her bed. And for some reason I said "no"!?! Damn my love of laying in bed as late as possible in the mornings and not wanting to have to travel from South to Northwest to East London tomorrow morning.

I had no choice but to bring my wheelchair into the building. Well, I did have a choice, but I doubt the paramedics would've been that attractive. I've never pulled an ambulancewoman before (well, once, but we weren't in her ambulance at the time), but I didn't fancy the broken hip as a chance to change that.

Of course, once my chair was in the building, I couldn't get it through my door. Well, I could take it apart to fit it through the door. But then where would I put it? It's not like my habitat is exactly spacious. I know I've shared bedding with my wheelchair before (hey, 1 person and 1 wheelchair in a two-man tent - underneath is the *only* option), but I thought the tyre marks on my white sheets might take some explaining. Not that anyone ever views my bed other than me. But, Sod's Law and all... the one time you have skid marks on your sheets...

So, my chair is clogging up the hall. Ha Mr Bicycle Boy! He's got some logic problems to solve in the morning to work out how to get his bike past my chair. Knowing Lisy Luck, I'll exit my bedroom in the morning to find one giant tyre mark going straight over my seating. Or my wheelchair out in the snow.

In the meantime I'm going to gloat. Yes Bike Boy... I've gotten revenge. Put that in your bong and smoke it (yes, I do recognise that smell seeping out from under your door).

Well, my keyboard issues have been resolved. No, I didn't go out and buy myself a spangly new keyboard, no, that would be far too easy.

Instead I bought myself whole spanking new laptop (hey, it's not like it was unjustified. The last one was five years old and took half an hour to switch on). Of course, now I have access to a b button, I'm not using it anyway. I decided to also get myself Dragon NaturallySpeaking, to see if that will ease the pain of RSI.

I think I'm now at risk of Repetitive Vowel Sound Injury or something like that.

I'll have 60 billion vowels please, Carol.

Miss! It's not my fault! The dog ate my homework!

OK, not strictly true. Seeing as I don't have a dog. And it's not like I ever did homework anyway (ooo, the reellion).

You may e noticing something odd aout this post. I seem to e omitting one particular letter of the alphaet.

Not delierate. Trust me.

My computer no longer has a utton etween the "v" and "n" keys on the keyoard.

That'll do as an excuse for why I've not written anything for a while. OK, my keyoard only roke the other day. ut it'll do as an excuse. Yes.

Picture the scene: A lesbian club night somewhere in London (though, any straight boys reading, please don't picture too hard, you might stain your New Years Eve fancy outfit).

Q: There's a lesbian in a wheelchair, a bisexual and a trans lesbian dancing together in your usual clubby group dancing formation. What do you get?

A: 75% of the dancefloor.

Now, if I was cynical...

Happy New Year and all that.

I love my parents, I dearly do. Especially because I know they're reading this (Hello Mum!).

My favourite thing about spending time with my family is the things you learn. My father loves to tell stories of his exploits. Yesterday he began a story with "Ooo, you should have been shopping with us in Morrisons the other day. You could've got an article out of that..."

This statement was then followed by a moments silence, as if to mourn for the braincell I lost as I banged my head against the back of the chair and rolled my eyes skyward.

He eventually broke the silence with "And then your cousin turned on this woman and started shouting at her saying "What about people in wheelchairs!?!"

Knowing my cousin, so finding it slightly hard to believe she'd just attacked a random stranger without provocation, I was slightly at a loss.

"You know what I love Dad? They way you tell your stories with such clarity, and you always remember to leave in that vital sentence where all becomes clear."

He accepted this as a compliment and carried on washing up.

My Mother was fortunately present for the incident, and she enlightened me as to what happened. Apparently they all overheard someone making disparaging remarks about wheelchair users. My (non-disabled) cousin turned to the woman whom she thought had made the remark, only to discover that the woman she'd been about to shout at was in fact in the middle of pointing out to the real culprit "Wheelchair users have as much right to shop as anyone else!"

The thing I love most about this story is that the two wheelchair users present remained silent. It reminds me of the time someone asked my Dad's PA "Is he OK there?" to which my mother replied "He can speak for himself, you know!"

Sniff that irony. And have a Happy Boxing Day.