Carry On... Hospital Managers

Or, why I ♥ the NHS.

On one of my thighs right now, I have resting a letter inviting me to attend a hosptial appointment this morning at 11am. Obviously, this appointment hasn't happened yet, what with 11am still being an hour and a quarter in the future.

On the other thigh, I have balanced a letter, posted 3 days ago (on Jun 16th), claiming I failed to attend my appointment on June 19th (later today, not happened yet, stick with the program).

Honest. I couldn't make this stuff up.

Last Saturday I gigged in a venue that is currently undergoing refurbishment.

It was interesting. The compere offered a prize to any audience member that could find a health and safety violation that the venue wasn't at the time in breach of.

Performing underneath exposed wires is a bit of incentive to do well. If they hate you, they could just throw water at you and watch you sizzle.

Anyway, possibly the most distressing part of the evening was going to the toilet. They'd removed the ladies toilet doors. (Don't bother asking why I didn't use the crip bog - it was a comedy venue. Don't be as daft as to think there might be one).

To offer some privacy for the ladies peeing, they'd provided curtains. Except, they were so short that if you were seated on the throne, they covered your face - and nothing else.

This made for an interesting alternate game of "Guess Who?" during the intervals...

"Are they bald?"

"No."

"Do they have short hair?"

"Yes."

"Are they blonde?"

"No."

"Any piercings?"

"Yes."

"I think it's Gilly."

In the 2nd interval an audience member informed me that the toilets were full of women with their Sun-In dying their minges "because, well, you've got to with those curtains."

Well that was a strange pop to the shops to buy some toilet paper.

I was waiting to cross the road, and, naturally, with it being Camden High Street, the queue to cross had reached a few layers of people deep.

This woman at the front steps aside to let me cross. Sounds polite? Yeah?

The traffic was still flowing.

I did have to point out to her "It's alright, I'm going to wait until the man's turned green."

I waited for about a minute, the man still not turning green (I wonder if he just caught his girlfriend in bed with someone else? That'd explain the constant changing between angry red and envious green), wondering "Oh, no, I'm not now one of those crips that people moan about that 'give "the disabled" a bad name' am I?" When I got completely outshone...

A guy in a wheelchair deliberately swerves from the path he'd been taking to crash into the side of my wheelchair (also crashing into the leg of the lady who'd moved out of my way); turns to me and calls me "disabled scummy" and swerves off in the other direction again!

I would hypothesise that he mistook me for his own reflection, except, I'm far prettier (which is truly an insult to him if you know just how rancid I look).

I guess at least he didn't call me "handicapped".

BADD

Today is BADD.

No, I haven't woken up with amnesia thinking I'm stuck in the 80's

And, no, today hasn't been really shit, necessitating the extra "D" for emphasis.

Today is Blogging Against Disablism Day (The brainchild of The Goldfish, inspired by Blogging Against Sexism Day, Blogging Against Racism Day, Blogging Against Heteronormativity
Day and others).

You may be thinking "Why does Lisy need to participate in a designated day? All she seems to do is winge about the discrimination she faces." And you'd be right. I asked myself the same question many times. But, in the end, faced with a shiny, exciting bandwagon - I just had to jump on (the bandwagon had working ramps, how could I resist?).

It comes at an apt time for me, as I'm suddenly in a state of heightened awareness about being disabled. Why? Because, for the last fortnight, I haven't been disabled.

Did my Osteogenesis Imperfecta vanish for the duration of my holiday? No. Of course not. But, for the two weeks I spent in America, I was not disabled. There was nothing I was stopped from doing because America (or at least the state of California) has almost entirely ridded itself of disabling barriers.

During my holiday I found myself able to go wherever I wanted to, whenever I wanted to. All buses, trains, underground trains, trams, etc... are accessible. Whereas here in London of course, I'm disabled. Not by my Osteogenesis Imperfecta, but by the stairs/escalators on the underground and at train stations, by buses with ramps that don't work, etc.

And it wasn't just in the arena of getting around that my disability was removed. I could go into any bar, I could eat in any restaurant (well, not *any* because Americans just don't seem to "get" vegetarianism, but my impairment proved no disability), I could visit any tourist attraction, safe in the knowledge that there would be access, and I wouldn't be disabled.

Now I'm back in the UK and, whilst my impairment is at exactly the same level as it was on the other side of the Atlantic. But now, I'm so severely disabled I can't even get into my local organic food store - because it's their steps disabling me, not my impairment.

I even did two gigs in San Francisco. Both clubs were fully accessible from the point of view of audience members (and so, *gasp*, on both nights there were actually crips in the audience) and one, with it's level performance area, was even accessible to wheelie comics. That's a 50% rate of full access. I must've played in over 50 comedy clubs in the UK. And how many of those were fully accessible to a performer? 3 (incase you're wondering, my criteria is: access to the entrance, an accessible toilet and either level access to the performance area or a ramp up to the stage). And only a handful more have access for audience members too. It seems that only time you're going to hear the word "access" in conjunction with the words "comedy club" here in the UK is if you happen to overhear a conversation between me and Liz.

Attitudes in America are completely different too. During my trip, two whole weeks, only one small child pointed and stared at me like I was a freak of nature. That was at Universal Studios, so I'm assuming that she too was a British tourist.

As I said in a previous post - in California, wheelchair users can get everywhere - so we are everywhere. Here I know far too many people (my parents included) who, due to disabling barriers, leave their own homes far less often than is healthy. I'm guessing British tourists going to America for the first time probably think there's been some kind of plague because there are so many crips about - shopping, socialising, taking the bus to work. (I guess technically there has been a kind of plague - war veterans who've become disabled due to the Bush family's tendency to pick fights with countries they don't like).

Of course, disablism isn't only about the barriers preventing us from getting to public places. Many of us face discrimination the second we get out of bed in the morning, before we've left the house. Laurence, in this article points out that there is an estimated shortfall of 300,000 wheelchair accessible homes in the UK. I live in an inaccessible flat. There's 3 steps to get in (fortunately each far enough apart from the others for me to bump my chair up and then regain my balance before tackling the next one) and my flat is far too small to move my chair around in.

You may be wondering why a feisty character like me would accept such sub-standard accommodation. Simply, when I was offered the flat it was more accessible than where I was living, and I knew it was going to be the best I was going to find for a long time.

But, why is there such a shortfall of accessible accommodation? You guessed it - disablism. If architects, builders, local councils, etc could just bear in mind that building accessible houses would not only eliminate the discrimination disabled people face, but, more importantly from their point of view, would bring in a profit - cos, guess what, crips pay rent and even buy houses! Shock, horror!

That is of course the other side of disablism. Not only do disabled people face inequality, but also, landlords, shop owners, restauranteurs, etc, etc lose profits by excluding crips. Sadly, maintaining inequality and an unjust society seems more important to these people than raking in the profits. Which seems like bizarre business sense to me. You'd never see a pub with a sign outside saying "No blacks!", so why are steps at the door acceptable? It's tantamount to the same thing.

And, at the end of the day, while all prejudices are wrong, disablism is the least rational, yet the most rampant (though white, I am a woman, and I am gay. I never experience sexism or homophobia, yet, as I pointed out, I encounter disablism before I've even left my flat of a morning). Tomorrow you could get hit by a bus. You wouldn't wake up suddenly gay, you wouldn't wake up suddenly black, you wouldn't wake up suddenly female, but, it's highly likely that you might wake up disabled. And if you're a pub landlord I bet you'd really find yourself wishing you could still kick yourself for not making the place accessible when you spent all that money on refurbishing last year.

A friend recently suggested meeting up in this pub. Notice the access comment: "Disabled access (access only, no accessible toilets)". So, an accessible drinking establishment, as long as you don't want to drink anything. That'll bring in the £80 billion crips collectively have to spend every year.

Though many crips do have money, disablism is also an economic construct. Using my holiday as an example: A non-disabled person carrying a suitcase would have no difficulty at all walking from my flat, down to Euston station to get the 205 bus to Paddington, so they could get the Heathrow Express, no difficulty in getting the case onto the bus, and off the bus. I can't. With a case, I have to get a taxi. That 205 bus in London costs £1.50. Taxi's cost considerably more. Mobility impaired London residents can get a Taxicard, and that reasonably short journey to Paddington, with a Taxicard cost me £1.50. The same as the bus would cost a non-crip. See how the Taxicard eliminates the financial penalty for having a mobility impairment? I recently heard someone argue that Taxicard should be abolished because "Why should disabled people be able to travel however they want, whenever they want? If disabled people can have a Taxicard, I should be able to take a limousene to work on my monthly travelcard!"

Yes. Let's bring back the financial penalties for being disabled just cos you're jealous that you have to take the tube. At least you can take the tube.

That's a very small scale example of economic discrimination. This woman claims that her £110,000 compensation doesn't cover the extra living costs of being disabled for life. Quite rightly so.

Someone I used to know received over £1 million in compensation from the hospital trust responsible for causing her Cerebral Palsy to cover her extra living costs for being disabled.

Both these people are eligible for Disability Living Allowance. A benefit which is supposed to cover the extra costs of being disabled.

From these amounts of compensation, we can ascertain that, during the course of the average disabled person's life, they are underpaid between £110,000 and £1 million in DLA. I fully agree that where there is blame for an impairment, the "victim" should be compensated for the trauma. But, to include living costs in the compensation calculation? That shouldn't be neccessary. Surely we should *all* have our extra living costs met. But, no. We're financially penalised and economically discriminated against.

And someone can begrudge me paying a taxi fare equal to the bus fare they would pay.

All over London there are these Chinese Herbal Clinics, with displays in their window offering treatments and pain relief for impairments such as arthritis. Obviously, I'm not one of these people that believes that alternative medicine can provide cures, but I do firmly believe that many can offer some degree of pain relief. So, these clinics are offering to help crips ease their pain - but have I ever seen just *one* that didn't have steps at the door? No. Not even one. You'd think that if they're targeting their services at people with chronic pain, that they wouldn't exclude most of their potential clients by renting inaccessible premises. "Oh, hi. Yes, we can treat you. As long as there's nothing "wrong" with you to begin with of course."

Duh.

Other places you'd think you wouldn't find disablism would be in services specifically for disabled people, right?

As I've mentioned before, my father went to a "special" college for disabled young men, when he was a disabled young man. The entry criteria? You had to be able to walk. I love all his old college photo's, full of people who should be wheelchair users, but were forced to prop themselves up with every walking aid going, just to get some semblance of an education (no-one taught my father to read until he was 21). When you look at the pictures you get to play "Guess who fell over just after the picture was taken!" I think it was Dad several times.

Sounds like something that wouldn't happen "in this day and age"? This evening I had a telephone conversation with an old school friend. He now lives in a segregated community specifically for disabled people (in a first floor flat with no lift up the stairs). He was saying that they're currently evicting all the residents who are *too* disabled and actually need any assistance with, anything.

It is now just before midnight, BADD is nearly over, and much like realising you've got three minutes left of your exam - I feel I should write a conclusion.

So, much like drugs, disablism is wrong. Just say no, kids.

There.

This public information post was brought to you by vast quantities of tea and the letter "Ouch my arse hurts from sitting still at the computer for too long."

"You're Australian, right?"

"No."

"New Zealand?"

"No. British."

"Oh..."

I've also been asked if I'm South African, Welsh and accused of being Irish.

"Why San Francisco?"

Like it's a shithole not worth visiting. Obviously if I met a tourist in Clacton On Sea I'd ask them that, but, San Francisco - while it doesn't have the shiny sun of LA - is actually a pretty cool (literally) place.

I rented a car and drove up here from LA. Having never driven on the right hand side of the road, and having never driven a left hand drive vehicle - it was something of an experience.

A few years ago when The Thrills released their album "So Much For The City" I heard the song "Big Sur" on the radio a lot.

Obviously, on the radio you can't here spellings, so I thought the song was "Big Sir" - perhaps a song about a dodgy, well-endowed teacher. Turns out that actually, Big Sur is in fact a place on the California coast.

Looking at the map, I thought it'd be an ideal distance along my way to stop overnight for some kip. Until I got there. Then I fully understood why the lyrics went "Just don't go back to Big Sur..." (and from that lyric you can also understand how I came to my misunderstanding over what the song is about).

I did pass a couple of inns/hotels/motels, drove past them and thought "You know what. I'd kinda like to stay somewhere that looks like it's got electricity. My iPod needs recharging if it's going to see me all the way to San Francsico."

So, I passed through the town thinking of one of The Thrills other songs "Oh Santa Cruz, No, you're not that far..." because I was getting kinda tired having been driving for 11 hours and I was looking for a place to crash. As in sleep - I wasn't looking to wrap my rented car around a pole, even though it was insured.

When I finally reached Santa Cruz, I checked into a motel. The first time I've ever stayed in a proper park-your-car-by-your-bedroom-door motel. I was somewhat nervous about the prospect, especially the thought of having to take a shower the following morning. I wanted to survive to see San Francisco and not to wind up with the contents of my veins flowing down the shower drain like I was circulating chocolate syrup. I've seen that movie.

I was nervous enough on a plane to Los Angeles - I was convinced the tail section would snap off mid flight and I'd wake up on the beach on a desert island, strangely no longer disabled.

I survived the night and the next morning packed my stuff back into my proper grown up car (seriously, Hertz gave me a Toyota Camry. What do I need a huge family car for? There was just me, and I'm used to my ickle 206) and discovered that I do, in fact, know the way to San Jose.

From there I headed towards San Fran via one of the US's infamous Outlet Malls. Can you believe they had a Skechers store and I managed to resist buying any footwear at all?

I arrived in San Francisco and checked into my hostel. I haven't seen that movie yet, so wasn't so afraid of getting butchered. I have bought the DVD whilst over here though. But I figured that was one to watch when I was safely back in my flat. However Massacre in a one bedroom Camden Council Flat is one I shall be avoiding.

Yesterday I felt truly at home, here on the other side of the world.

It absolutely pissed down. How British.

"What the hell am I doing drinking in L.A. at 26?" Sheltering from the rain. That's what.

And as if that wasn't enough... I spent over an hour waiting for a bus with a lift that worked. I really felt like I was back in London. Except of course for the fact that I was having to wait for the bus on the other side of the road.

The one thing to constantly remind me that I was, indeed, in America, was the fact that as I waited for my bus:

1) No-one asked me if I needed any help crossing the road.
2) No small children pointed and stared.
3) None of the passing dogs started yapping at me because they've never seen a wheelchair before.

In America, we can get everywhere (hell, even the Lush store a block from my hostel is accessible. You know you're in a crip friendly country if you can get in a Lush with ease), so, we are everywhere.

As a result, your average American is used to seeing us wheelies everywhere and doesn't look at you like you're a piece of modern art on wheels.

When I did finally board a bus, only one person on board did an owl impression (the head rotation) to see how the lift worked liked they'd never seen a crip getting on a bus before.

You know. I could get used to this...

"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.

Paper bags.

What is the fucking point?

"Oh, well, they're better for the environment cos they biodegrade unlike plastic bags..."

Yeah. Let's save the world by cutting down the trees!

"But, recycled paper."

If I wanted to wipe my arse on one of my old degree essays I wouldn't sent it via the recycling bank.

I did slightly go off the point there, moving from paper bags to toilet roll. But, as far as I'm concerned paper bags are more practical for wiping your arse with than they are for carrying your shopping home.

So, you leave Lush having spent most of this month's pay cheque on ridiculous expensive but oh so pretty smelling, erm, smellies. Can you get the bag to hang on the back of your wheelchair? Can you fuck. 8 out of 10 plastic carrier bags will hang on the back of a wheelchair... But paper bags? I'm yet to meet one...

What can you do? You need your hands to push so you end up carrying the bag home in your teeth, fully reveling in the pain in your jaw from where you need to have your sideways wisdom to be sawn in half to be removed (bone saw in my mouth! What fun. Thank fuck I'll be asleep). Spot the problem? You have saliva in your mouth which is wet. Wet dissolves paper. You seeing my problem here? By the time you get home you're dribbling black ink from the bag, and the handles have disintegrated so nothing but luck gets your goodies home.

This of course adds to my theory that Lush don't want "us" buying their stuff. Don't believe me? Check out the inaccessibility of all their London stores. Covent Garden possibly qualifying for "the most inaccessible store, in the world... Ever!"

And the paper bags is not just a cripple issue. This is Britain! It rains all the damn time! You spend a fortune on smellies, go out in the pissing rain and the bottom has fallen out of the bag by the time you get to the bus stop. You've just spent a fortune on fancy shower gels et al only for some tall bloke reeking of alcohol to tread in them when the bag loses the will to live. His shoes get nice and clean, but, what about me? Maybe that's their marketing ploy so you have to go back and buy more?

"But small children and animals can suffocate in plastic bags!"

I don't have small children and my cat likes to lick plastic bags. Licking paper doesn't seem to please her nearly as much.

Dear Anonymous Commenter;

Thank you for your question, it is indeed a valid one.

However, you are incorrect to assume that this blog is dead.

I metioned back in November that I was having some health problems. In other words: My stomach was kinda fucked and causing me a lot of pain.

Well, two and a half months on, I'm still ill, and still in a lot of pain. As a result, I'm not feeling up to spending as much time at the computer as I used to, hence the lack of bloggage. My stomach sends it's most sincere apologies for not only ruining my life, but also the lives of my readers who clearly depend on reading what I have to say about the world.

Normal blogging service will resume once normal stomach service resumes.

Yours Faithfully,

Lisy Babe.

Something festive...

Apparently the link only works for two weeks.

Pussy!

Betty
Originally uploaded by Lisy Babe.

I have a new roommate.

Isn't she pretty?

There have been no updates for the last couple of weeks, because I have been a poorly Lisy.

Just now, I was on my way home from the hospital, where they took my blood away from me to see if it tested positive for H. Pylori. Which to me means "if I do test positive, they can give me antibiotics and I'll be all well again." So keep your fingers crossed for me that I do have some spirally bacteria eating away at my stomach lining, because the fix is quick and easy.

Anyway, I was on my way home, and I passed a woman, drinking her take away coffee who paused, looked at me with genuine sympathy and said "I hope you have a nice life." I'm not sure if she was passing comment on me being a crip, or the big ball of cotton wool I currently have taped to the back of my hand to stop me bleeding to death.*

Having been stuck at home with the ability to do nothing other than lay and watch DVD's...

Actually, on that, so far since I fell ill, I've watched:

Series 5 & 7 of Friends - each series 24 episodes each 21 mins long
Series 6 of Friends - 25 episodes at 21 mins long.
Series 1 of Buffy - 12 episodes, 42 mins each.
Series 4 of Charmed 22 episodes of 42 mins
The first 8 episodes of Tru Calling - again 42 mins an episode.

Plus the last episode of series three of Charmed (42 mins), The first two episodes of series 5 of Charmed (hey, I was watching series 4 and I wanted the context!), the first 4 episodes of series 8 of Charmed, and the first half (12 episodes) of series 8 of Friends.

Any mathematicians care to work out the total time (in hours / days) that I've spent plonked in front of the TV since my guts went nuts?

Anyway, back to the sentence I started before I was rudely interrupted by, erm, my brain and its tangents... I was forgetting how weird the world outside my flat was. I've had no-one saying weird things to me in the street... because I've not been out in the street. On my way to the hospital this morning though, I was crossing the road, and I could see a guy just itching to say to me something that someone actually did say to me at a pedestrian crossing a few weeks ago.

"You're alright now, love."

Because, apparently, I was in such peril when the red illuminated man was showing. But Mr Green made it all OK.

And on the note of odd people, I feel my DVDs of sitcoms calling me.

*That may be a slight exaggeration

Halloween

This afternoon I was sitting in front of my computer, planning my Halloween evening of sitting at home, by myself, watching all the Halloween episodes of Buffy and eating popcorn, when the following Email arrived in my inbox:

Fancy joining myself and Nat in Ben Crouches for halloween drinks tonight?

I had thought the other day that Ben Crouches would be a fun pub in which to spend Halloween. After all, the place is adorned with such spooky goodness as this funky gremlin all year round:



So, I accepted the invitation, and headed off towards the pub.

On our table was a pumpkin, all ready to be carved. So, after we ate, Nat and I used our knives to carve a face into it.



I did the right eye and the nose. Nat did the left eye and the mouth. Rob refused to participate in the carvage because he feared the pumpkin would collapse.

It didn't stop him playing with the removed pieces once the carving had been done:



Very soon, our pumpkin looked like this:



And Rob decided to name him "Eric."

We did not have any candles about our persons unfortunately. We did however have mobile phones, so we managed to make Eric glow:



At some point during the evening, I acquired a hat:



Of course, Eric tried it on:



Turns out that Eric's a smoker:



And when he ran out of cigarettes, he got desperate and tried to smoke a tube of Smarties:



Eric and Rob had a deep and meaningful conversation:



Though, at some point in the conversation, Eric said something shocking:



Eric and I got on well:



Perhaps a little too well:



And then, after I'd worked my way through over half of the Seven Deadly Sins cocktail menu, it was time to go. Nat gave Eric a very sweet goodbye kiss:



And we left Eric on the table for others to appreciate our creativity (but I wore my hat all the way home).

Back to uni

Don't read the subject line and panic. I haven't gone back on my vow that I never want to write another essay in my life and gone and signed up for a Masters or something equally silly.

It's bad enough that I still have nightmares that I've got upcoming deadlines and I'm not sure what I'm meant to be writing about, or when exactly the deadline is. At least these days I can reassure myself that it was just a bad dream. My degree is all over now. Yes, I did rubbish in it because I never did any work. But, it's all in the past. Now go back to sleep Lisy, it's alright.

Yes.

On Saturday night I performed at the Comedy Night in the students union at Brunel.

And I thought that place was a shithole when I was a student. It's now just one great big building site (though it does still in places have the A Clockwork Orange look going on. Unsurprising really as it remains depressingly concrete which was what made Kubrick think it an ideal location for shooting the film. For three years I had my lectures in the building which made for the block of flats in which the protagonist in that movie lived). Twenty five minutes it took me to find the way in to the SU because they've moved and hidden the door. When I finally followed someone going in I realised that I'd passed the door twice. I just got confused by the sign next to it saying "Protective headgear must be worn beyond this point." I knew The Academy could get a bit rough, but...

I must confess, I had been dreading the evening. Once during my three years at Brunel I went to the comedy night. The audience were so rude to the acts (not even heckling, just flat out ignoring) that I decided that, actually, I'd head into Central London to get my comedic fixes. And then, 2 and a half years after leaving, here was I not only going back, but, actually getting up on the stage in front of these people.

As soon as I entered the building, I thought I was going to be sick. That wasn't nerves mind, that was because of the smell of alcohol and still being hungover from 2 nights earlier. Then I went to go to the bathroom and some delightful student had chundered in the sink in the crip bog. That smell didn't help my uneasy stomach either.

The difference about between being a "performer" and being a student became clear then. A member of venue staff had had to show me where the disabled toilet was, seeing as it had moved since I graduated. If I tried to go in the spot where the disabled toilet used to be, I'd have ended up squatting behind the bar. Upon seeing the sick filled sink, he went, "Oh, no! Don't go in there! I'll clean that up first!" I do seem to recall several times whilst a student mentioning that the disabled toilet was flooded and being greeted with a "yeah, so?"

In amongst my dread of going back, there was one thing I was desperately looking forward to. I was going to get to perform upon a stage which had been performed upon by none other than the great Tiffany herself (yes, the one who thought she was alone now) just two and a half years earlier. Imagine my disappointment when the new look Academy came into full view, and the stage had gone and been replaced by another!?! My hopes dashed, I decided to go and sit backstage and hang out with the other comics until showtime.

It appears that when they refurbished The Academy, the one bit they forgot to do was "The Guest Room." When I say "it was a toilet" I don't mean it was a bit icky. I mean it was an actual toilet. With no seat. And a paint spattered brown sofa in the corner.

One of the comedians I recognised as soon as I entered the room. Which surprised me because my face recognition is appalling. Very often comics will say to me "Oh, I remember you, we gigged together at ......," and I never recognise them. Until they get on stage and suddenly I find myself about to recall their set almost word for word. And, sure enough, she got about halfway through her set and suddenly I was able to recall where, when, and who promoted the gig we did together.

The night was MCed by the comedy double act best known as Big Cook Little Cook. It is remarkably entertaining to watch children's TV presenters singing silly songs about sex. It feels slightly naughty, even though no-one in the room is in fact under 18.

I was on in the middle section of the show. I went on stage, still disappointed that it's not the same one on which Tiffany had walked. I told my first joke, and the audience laughed so loudly for so long at one point I feared I wouldn't get another one out in my allotted time slot. My nerves and nightmares had all been for nothing, as Brunel apparently now has nice students. Well, they'd have to be to put up with paying all that money to do their degree on a building site I suppose. When I came out to them as a Brunel graduate they all cheered at me, surprisingly not quite as loudly as when I came out to them as an Essex girl though. It was quite nice to be gigging on familiar territory as even "so, does the fire alarm still go off in Mill Hall five times a night?" got a laugh (Mill being the hall of residence in which I resided in my first year).

I fear that several of my punchlines may have gotten drowned out by the laughter which kicked in two words into the line. But, fuck it. I was there to make them laugh, and I did. Even if I couldn't even hear my own punchlines over the laughter because it was so loud.

As I said my farewell, I said "It was a pleasure to come back." And, you know what? I actually meant it.

I came off the stage and a girl I'd never met before flung her arms around me and told me how amazing I was. She seemed "bubbly, friendly and outgoing" rather than "scary," so I hugged her back and said "thanks," rather than flinching and shrieking. I like that kind of feedback, so whenever I see an act I enjoy I make every effort to tell them. Mind you, I do also try to keep my arms to myself as I'm sure that to most folks I come across as "nut."

This time last week I couldn't imagine me typing this... but, I want to do it again!

Incurable Hippie has tagged me to post 20 random facts about myself and then tag the same amount of people as minutes it takes me to write the facts. Except, I'm not going to tag people. Mainly, because I don't really know who reads my blog regularly.

But, have some facts:

1) Last night I had a bubble bath for the first time in years. It was very bubbly, thanks for asking.

2) I dislike feet. They smell. My biggest foot hate though is people with skanky fungal toenails who wear sandals. I firmly believe that wearing sandals should be made a criminal offence.

3) I hate mushrooms. I'm allergic to eggs, but, I'd rather eat an egg than mushrooms. That is the extent of how vile and evil I believe mushrooms to be.

4) The stapler on my desk currently contains pink staples. But, purple staples are my real stapling passion.

5) Despite identifying as a lesbian; I do have a crush on the character Spike from Buffy/Angel. I can justify this by saying "But, he's a fictional character. They could've cast a female actor to play that role." But, if I'm honest, I do think that James Marsters is unusually hot for a guy. Or, at least he was when he was blonde.

6) The majority of pens laying around my flat are purple. Some are perfumed, some are glittery, some are metallic shiny, but, purple is the over-riding theme.

7) I only wear novelty socks, because, they're easier to pair up when you pull them out of the wash.

8) One of my feet is a size 4. The other is a size 2.5.

9) My right leg is 2 and a half inches longer than my left.

10) I'm left-handed. When I was a child I was ambidextrous because I had to learn to do everything with both hands due to always having one or the other in plaster. But, now my right hand is definitely my non-handed hand.

11) My eyes are greeny hazel with blue whites.

12) I have a mini-mirrorball above my desk (can you tell I'm just looking around me for inspiration?)

13) I'm not superstitious, and I don't really believe that the number "13" is unlucky. But, I never have my stereo or car radio on volume setting "13".

14) I do not have a favourite film. I've seen and loved too many.

15) I could quite happily live on a diet of Pesto Pasta.

16) I hate washing up almost as much as I hate mushrooms. I wish my kitchen was big enough for a dishwasher.

17) I am incredibly severely punctually challenged. I can never be on time for anything. No matter how hard I try. If I set off early enough to plan to be somewhere early there will be some traffic/public transport nightmare that will inevitably lead to me being late.

18) Someone just buzzed my door saying "Did you ring for a taxi?" Um. No.

19) I have a burning desire to make some yummy vegetable soup. But, I'm not sure I can be bothered.

20) This has actually taken me 47 minutes to complete because I got distracted by the telly.