To all those pessimists who said that the implementation of the final phase of Part 3 of the Disability Discrimination Act was too little too late: I say "pah!"
Ramps are suddenly springing up all over the place...
OK, by "all over the place" I mean, outside the Costa Coffee in West Hampstead... but, hey... that wasn't there last week (OK, so, technically they were in breach of the law for almost 2 months, but, I'm in "optimist mode", we'll just gloss over the so called "facts").
I like Costa Coffee. They sell coffee with a Flake stuck in it, thus combining two of my passions; chocolate and caffeine. I've never bothered attempting to get in to the one in West Hampstead - there's a Starbucks without a step right next door. Not that I've ever gone in there either; Starbucks are evil, nasty and corporate. And when I lived in Cambridge I used to drink in Starbucks all the time. The staff in the one in Waterstones (which is now no longer a Waterstones but a clothes store) obviously never cleaned the espresso machine. Unclean water boiling device + the hardness of Cambridge's water = actual lumps of limescale in the bottom of your coffee. Kinda puts you off for life. But West Hampstead has plenty of other cafes to choose from. Even if I haven't found one which serves coffee with chocolate in it.
I wonder who complained? For a change, it wasn't me.
24 November 2004
17 November 2004
It was about 10 minutes after I last updated my blog that I saw it. I was so terrified that I ended up sitting frozen at my desk for about an hour and three quarters.
What was it I saw? Saw? No. Though I want to, but I think it's vanished from all the cinemas near me now. When posters started springing up all over West Hampstead advertising the film simply saying "Dare you see saw?" I thought that it was some kind of juvenile challenge and that the playground had gotten nasty. Of course, having bones that tended to break when I did things like eating my dinner, I never did dare see-saw as a child. The challenge offered by these posters made me wonder what I may have been missing out on. Until I realised they were talking about a film.
So, what was it I saw on Sunday then that had me incapacitated with fear?
A mouse sitting on top of my fridge.
Apparently, not only is there a hole at the back of my kitchen cupboard giving them access up from beneath the floorboards... they can also get out of the cupboard via a hole in the side of the cupboard, leading them to a nice landing perch - the fridge.
Maybe it could smell the fact that my fridge currently contains 7 different types of cheese (hey - I'm a vegetarian. I need to get my protein from somewhere), and was on a mission to break in?
A couple of weeks ago, I reported the mice to my housing caseworker at the council. He reported it to the landlord's agent who accordingly sent their handyman round (who had been round before the call from the council but just did bugger all and left). He laid a "glue trap" by the hole at the back of my kitchen cupboard.
If you've never seen one of these 'traps' before - they look like oversized self-adhesive surgical dressings, and I guess work on the hypothetical prinicpal that they're fly paper for mice. I just had visions of a mouse running round underneath the floorboards looking like he'd just gotten in from A&E (or the ER for any American-English speaking readers). I however couldn't for a second envisage it actually "trapping" anything.
On Monday I called the landlord's agents again saying "There's still mice! I saw one yesterday!", so this morning I was again woken by a tattooed man clutching more of these dressings. He opened my cupboard to see if anything was trapped in the, well, 'trap', and...
"The trap's gone!" He exclaimed with a certain amount of surprise.
"Oh?" I said far more calmly, knowing immediately that my vision had come true, and a mouse was somewhere under my floor alive and running round, but with a sheet of sticky stuff covering his back and thus mildly impairing his movement.
The handyman laid another trap. If that one goes too, then it shall be certain that one of my rodent room-mates has an entrepreneurial flair, and has decided to launch his own rodent back-waxing business. I can understand it, I mean, would you want to shag someone with a back *that* hairy?
What was it I saw? Saw? No. Though I want to, but I think it's vanished from all the cinemas near me now. When posters started springing up all over West Hampstead advertising the film simply saying "Dare you see saw?" I thought that it was some kind of juvenile challenge and that the playground had gotten nasty. Of course, having bones that tended to break when I did things like eating my dinner, I never did dare see-saw as a child. The challenge offered by these posters made me wonder what I may have been missing out on. Until I realised they were talking about a film.
So, what was it I saw on Sunday then that had me incapacitated with fear?
A mouse sitting on top of my fridge.
Apparently, not only is there a hole at the back of my kitchen cupboard giving them access up from beneath the floorboards... they can also get out of the cupboard via a hole in the side of the cupboard, leading them to a nice landing perch - the fridge.
Maybe it could smell the fact that my fridge currently contains 7 different types of cheese (hey - I'm a vegetarian. I need to get my protein from somewhere), and was on a mission to break in?
A couple of weeks ago, I reported the mice to my housing caseworker at the council. He reported it to the landlord's agent who accordingly sent their handyman round (who had been round before the call from the council but just did bugger all and left). He laid a "glue trap" by the hole at the back of my kitchen cupboard.
If you've never seen one of these 'traps' before - they look like oversized self-adhesive surgical dressings, and I guess work on the hypothetical prinicpal that they're fly paper for mice. I just had visions of a mouse running round underneath the floorboards looking like he'd just gotten in from A&E (or the ER for any American-English speaking readers). I however couldn't for a second envisage it actually "trapping" anything.
On Monday I called the landlord's agents again saying "There's still mice! I saw one yesterday!", so this morning I was again woken by a tattooed man clutching more of these dressings. He opened my cupboard to see if anything was trapped in the, well, 'trap', and...
"The trap's gone!" He exclaimed with a certain amount of surprise.
"Oh?" I said far more calmly, knowing immediately that my vision had come true, and a mouse was somewhere under my floor alive and running round, but with a sheet of sticky stuff covering his back and thus mildly impairing his movement.
The handyman laid another trap. If that one goes too, then it shall be certain that one of my rodent room-mates has an entrepreneurial flair, and has decided to launch his own rodent back-waxing business. I can understand it, I mean, would you want to shag someone with a back *that* hairy?
14 November 2004
Occasionally I wish someone saw me naked.
The reason I'm thinking this today isn't anything sexual. I just have this overwhelming urge to show off the most unbelievable collection of bruises that I'm currently sporting.
Most of the bruises on my legs turned two weeks old yesterday. I almost felt compelled to get them a celebratory cake. The combination of having an impairment which makes me bruise easily and having a propensity to drunkenly fall over perhaps isn't the greatest combination, unless you like that rainbow coloured complexion look that is.
The cluster of bruises running most of the length of my inner right thigh happened on Wednesday evening. I was standing up in a desperate attempt to get noticed by the staff behind the bar, with one foot on either side of the footrest-bar-thingy on the front of my wheelchair. Suddenly I felt this sharp pain between my legs (not *there* between my legs, lower down, about halfway between my hips and my knees). I looked around and a wasted wankstain had tried to sit on the backrest of my wheelchair. He of course had immediately been flung to the floor (ha ha) but where my chair flipped backwards, the hard metal footbar neatly ran itself along my inner thigh, with the force of someone's bodyweight behind it. The wasted wankstain in question picked himself up off the floor, and then had the audacity to tell me to "Chill the fuck out, man".
On Thursday my inner thigh was an aesthetically pleasing shade of bluey purple. Sadly it's now turned yellow, and combined with the rest of the bruises on my legs, I look quite jaundiced. Add to all this the really deep greeny/browny bruise on my left upper arm (if anyone knows where I got that one, answers on a postcard would be much appreciated) I think I could take my clothes off in public and look like I was wearing a military camouflage uniform.
Returning to the tale of my inner thigh... Let's not forget that I have Osteogenesis Imperfecta. The angle at which, and the force with which my wheelchair hit me on Wednesday, I was very lucky not to break my femur. The BBC is currently loving telling us that we're a Fat Nation and that we need to lose weight. To be honest, I'm pleased to be sporting a layer of padding as right now I'm sitting at home, in my pyjama's in front of a computer - had I not had a layer of lard on my thighs, protecting my bones from projectile wheelchairs I'd be laying in a hospital bed right now with a collection of weights dangled from my foot.
You know what, I think my bruises do deserve that celebratory cake after all.
The reason I'm thinking this today isn't anything sexual. I just have this overwhelming urge to show off the most unbelievable collection of bruises that I'm currently sporting.
Most of the bruises on my legs turned two weeks old yesterday. I almost felt compelled to get them a celebratory cake. The combination of having an impairment which makes me bruise easily and having a propensity to drunkenly fall over perhaps isn't the greatest combination, unless you like that rainbow coloured complexion look that is.
The cluster of bruises running most of the length of my inner right thigh happened on Wednesday evening. I was standing up in a desperate attempt to get noticed by the staff behind the bar, with one foot on either side of the footrest-bar-thingy on the front of my wheelchair. Suddenly I felt this sharp pain between my legs (not *there* between my legs, lower down, about halfway between my hips and my knees). I looked around and a wasted wankstain had tried to sit on the backrest of my wheelchair. He of course had immediately been flung to the floor (ha ha) but where my chair flipped backwards, the hard metal footbar neatly ran itself along my inner thigh, with the force of someone's bodyweight behind it. The wasted wankstain in question picked himself up off the floor, and then had the audacity to tell me to "Chill the fuck out, man".
On Thursday my inner thigh was an aesthetically pleasing shade of bluey purple. Sadly it's now turned yellow, and combined with the rest of the bruises on my legs, I look quite jaundiced. Add to all this the really deep greeny/browny bruise on my left upper arm (if anyone knows where I got that one, answers on a postcard would be much appreciated) I think I could take my clothes off in public and look like I was wearing a military camouflage uniform.
Returning to the tale of my inner thigh... Let's not forget that I have Osteogenesis Imperfecta. The angle at which, and the force with which my wheelchair hit me on Wednesday, I was very lucky not to break my femur. The BBC is currently loving telling us that we're a Fat Nation and that we need to lose weight. To be honest, I'm pleased to be sporting a layer of padding as right now I'm sitting at home, in my pyjama's in front of a computer - had I not had a layer of lard on my thighs, protecting my bones from projectile wheelchairs I'd be laying in a hospital bed right now with a collection of weights dangled from my foot.
You know what, I think my bruises do deserve that celebratory cake after all.
11 November 2004
"Hehe, you didn't indicate then!" Said a twat to me in the pub the other night, as I moved aside to let someone pass me.
I didn't even turn my head. I was determined to not start screaming at him for being a disablist cunt. Mainly because he was a skinhead and about twice my size.
"OK, well, fuck you then!" He felt the need to follow up with.
I dared to turn and give him evils.
"Yeah, you heard that, didn't you!"
I didn't feel it was appropriate to explain my personal policy on dealing with rude people. I felt it might get me a black eye. I could perhaps have explained my auditory processing difficulties, but that might have made the cogs in his brain turn, which also may have proved dangerous.
I considered my revenge. I was about to find myself on a stage, with a microphone in front of about 100 people. Why don't I tell them all to go downstairs and kick the skinhead with the light blue polo shirt. Put him in a wheelchair and see if he still finds himself hilarious. Yeah.
No. My "You have 15 seconds left" vibrating watch alarm went off when I was halfway through the last part of my Big Brother stuff (and seeing as how I was in front of a crowd, I didn't think it polite to place my wrist between my thighs). Shit. No time for picking on the disablist bloke.
It's a shame. I had a suprising number of allies. Particularly the non-disabled woman who, when I suggested they should put a disabled person in the Big Brother house, gasped, threw her arms up in the air and said "Oh, yes!" But, I suspect that rather than liking my joke, she had a vibrating watch too.
I didn't even turn my head. I was determined to not start screaming at him for being a disablist cunt. Mainly because he was a skinhead and about twice my size.
"OK, well, fuck you then!" He felt the need to follow up with.
I dared to turn and give him evils.
"Yeah, you heard that, didn't you!"
I didn't feel it was appropriate to explain my personal policy on dealing with rude people. I felt it might get me a black eye. I could perhaps have explained my auditory processing difficulties, but that might have made the cogs in his brain turn, which also may have proved dangerous.
I considered my revenge. I was about to find myself on a stage, with a microphone in front of about 100 people. Why don't I tell them all to go downstairs and kick the skinhead with the light blue polo shirt. Put him in a wheelchair and see if he still finds himself hilarious. Yeah.
No. My "You have 15 seconds left" vibrating watch alarm went off when I was halfway through the last part of my Big Brother stuff (and seeing as how I was in front of a crowd, I didn't think it polite to place my wrist between my thighs). Shit. No time for picking on the disablist bloke.
It's a shame. I had a suprising number of allies. Particularly the non-disabled woman who, when I suggested they should put a disabled person in the Big Brother house, gasped, threw her arms up in the air and said "Oh, yes!" But, I suspect that rather than liking my joke, she had a vibrating watch too.
03 November 2004
This post was going to be dedicated to praising the Brixton Academy, talking about how unlike most venues of its size, you can actually see the stage from the dedicated cripple enclosure (though I do think shaven heads in music venues should be compulsory for anyone over 5'7", or at the very least anyone wearing hair gel should be refused entry). But...
OK, so last night I went to see the Scissor Sisters. Kiki & Herb opened for them, and they were fantastically hilarious. Though my friend didn't look too impressed, I thought they were hilarious and darn nearly wet myself when they performed their cover of David Bowie's Space Oddity. With hindsight it's perhaps a shame that I didn't.
Scissor Sisters know how to put on a fantastic show. Well, almost. At one point they did 5 unknown/non-album songs in a row. They shouldn't have done more than two without breaking it up with something familiar in my opinion - but, it's hardly the end of the world, and other than that, the gig was fantastic. They even made the audience pray for Kerry to win the US Election. If there is a god he wasn't listening and the world has to be terrorised for another four years. If you're American you have my condolences, especially if you belong to a minority group.
I think for a significant proportion of last nights audience however, the main show came once the band had finished, at around 10:45pm when everyone departing got to see my fanny. Yes, you did read that correctly. And, yes, I mean the British English version of the word fanny.
For those of you not familiar with the layout of most disabled toilets, I'll explain. If you were to use the ladies toilets, you would be protected by one door separating the toilet areas off from a main area, and then a cubicle door, keeping you in utmost privacy (well, except for your ankles, or should you be unfortunate enough to have someone stand on the top of the toilet next door and peer over). Disabled toilets are never afforded that double door protection, and a door straight into the toilet cubicle usually leads off a main area. In the case of Brixton Academy, this is a bar/entrance&exit concourse.
Also, many disabled toilets around the country are locked with a "Radar Lock". The lock works on two levels, obviously. If the toilet is not engaged, you can turn your key and the door will open. If the toilet is engaged, you can't. On the inside of the door it usually says "Lift handle to lock". Which last night was exactly what I did.
However, what I didn't realise was - the lock was broken.
I was mid-stream when the door opened.
As soon as the door opened just a crack, I actually screamed. I was impressed I could do this as my voice had given up sometime during Take Your Mama and I'd returned to being in a state where coughing was the only noise I could make.
Despite the fact that the toilet was obviously engaged, the member of venue staff could see with her own eyes someone sitting on the toilet, and she was standing in a crowd of people trying to exit the venue, she still proceeded to open the door, and continue gawping. What a decent woman.
She did eventually shut the door. Funnily enough, that toilet suddenly became the last place I wanted to be.
What concerned me most of course was the queue of wheelchair users waiting for the toilet that didn't seem at all bothered by the fact the whilst they weed there would be outside the door a crazy cow with a fetish for watching women pee.
I suppose I should be grateful that at least someone wanted to see my genitals.
OK, so last night I went to see the Scissor Sisters. Kiki & Herb opened for them, and they were fantastically hilarious. Though my friend didn't look too impressed, I thought they were hilarious and darn nearly wet myself when they performed their cover of David Bowie's Space Oddity. With hindsight it's perhaps a shame that I didn't.
Scissor Sisters know how to put on a fantastic show. Well, almost. At one point they did 5 unknown/non-album songs in a row. They shouldn't have done more than two without breaking it up with something familiar in my opinion - but, it's hardly the end of the world, and other than that, the gig was fantastic. They even made the audience pray for Kerry to win the US Election. If there is a god he wasn't listening and the world has to be terrorised for another four years. If you're American you have my condolences, especially if you belong to a minority group.
I think for a significant proportion of last nights audience however, the main show came once the band had finished, at around 10:45pm when everyone departing got to see my fanny. Yes, you did read that correctly. And, yes, I mean the British English version of the word fanny.
For those of you not familiar with the layout of most disabled toilets, I'll explain. If you were to use the ladies toilets, you would be protected by one door separating the toilet areas off from a main area, and then a cubicle door, keeping you in utmost privacy (well, except for your ankles, or should you be unfortunate enough to have someone stand on the top of the toilet next door and peer over). Disabled toilets are never afforded that double door protection, and a door straight into the toilet cubicle usually leads off a main area. In the case of Brixton Academy, this is a bar/entrance&exit concourse.
Also, many disabled toilets around the country are locked with a "Radar Lock". The lock works on two levels, obviously. If the toilet is not engaged, you can turn your key and the door will open. If the toilet is engaged, you can't. On the inside of the door it usually says "Lift handle to lock". Which last night was exactly what I did.
However, what I didn't realise was - the lock was broken.
I was mid-stream when the door opened.
As soon as the door opened just a crack, I actually screamed. I was impressed I could do this as my voice had given up sometime during Take Your Mama and I'd returned to being in a state where coughing was the only noise I could make.
Despite the fact that the toilet was obviously engaged, the member of venue staff could see with her own eyes someone sitting on the toilet, and she was standing in a crowd of people trying to exit the venue, she still proceeded to open the door, and continue gawping. What a decent woman.
She did eventually shut the door. Funnily enough, that toilet suddenly became the last place I wanted to be.
What concerned me most of course was the queue of wheelchair users waiting for the toilet that didn't seem at all bothered by the fact the whilst they weed there would be outside the door a crazy cow with a fetish for watching women pee.
I suppose I should be grateful that at least someone wanted to see my genitals.
31 October 2004
Brakes on? Brakes off?
"You should talk about disabled lesbian sex, you know, how you do it." Said someone to me yesterday after hearing my stand-up set.
I'm not surprised that someone would think the idea of crippled lezza sex would be hilarious - when non-disabled people can envisage disabled people "doing it", it usually has hilarious connotations. I saw Billy Connolly live on Thursday, and he brought the whole of the Hammersmith Apollo into a hysterical state simply using the sentence "I shagged a dwarf!" He didn't even need to elaborate and build a joke of any kind, just the simple thought of sleeping with someone disabled will make 3719 people howl.
Surely, if this is the case, why bother writing comedy? Surely I can just go on stage and say "I'm not a virgin" and the rumbles of laughter from that one sentence should fill a whole spot. Especially of course as the audience tries to imagine just "how".
But the rest of this evening is not to be spent writing stand-up/sit-down comedy/porn. No. I'm going to return to my sickbed where I've been most of the week and resume coughing. Goodnight.
I'm not surprised that someone would think the idea of crippled lezza sex would be hilarious - when non-disabled people can envisage disabled people "doing it", it usually has hilarious connotations. I saw Billy Connolly live on Thursday, and he brought the whole of the Hammersmith Apollo into a hysterical state simply using the sentence "I shagged a dwarf!" He didn't even need to elaborate and build a joke of any kind, just the simple thought of sleeping with someone disabled will make 3719 people howl.
Surely, if this is the case, why bother writing comedy? Surely I can just go on stage and say "I'm not a virgin" and the rumbles of laughter from that one sentence should fill a whole spot. Especially of course as the audience tries to imagine just "how".
But the rest of this evening is not to be spent writing stand-up/sit-down comedy/porn. No. I'm going to return to my sickbed where I've been most of the week and resume coughing. Goodnight.
19 October 2004
Last week I was poorly. Hence the no updates thing. I wasn't on deaths door, but I did feel vaguely flu-ey and like I needed to be taken care of (and for a change I don't mean I needed taking care of in a sexual manner).
Unfortunately, I live alone, am single, and have no friends living close by. All I needed was someone to fetch me soup, and put more blankets over my poorly, cold feet. The only company I got of course was my rodent room-mate, who I thought had been banished, but it appears it was only temporary. He's now found his way into the cupboard beneath my kitchen sink. My kitchen sink is made of metal. On Saturday morning, my rodent roomie woke me up by trying to gnaw his way through it. It was one of the loudest things I have ever heard, and as a result, I'm now developing a slight phobia of my kitchen sink. Or, at least, that's my excuse for not washing up, and I'm sticking to it.
It'd be nice for a change to have a phobia which stopped me from doing something I hate doing anyway. I've now twice had therapy to get me over a phobia. When I was a child, I wouldn't go to bed until my mum had strip searched my room incase there were any spiders in there. Of course, they'd be in hiding until after I'd gone to bed, when they'd come out to show off. Because they're evil little fuckers. In the end my mother decided she'd had enough of this and dragged me kicking and screaming into the therapists office. And kicking and screaming is literally what I did, as she kept holding jars with spiders in in front of my face.
My other phobia was lifts. Yes, you are allowed to laugh, many people have. Of course, being a wheelchair user who couldn't go in a lift at all made my life very difficult. At 16 I decided it was just ridiculous, so I went to see my GP who referred me to the psychotherapy dept at the hospital. I was feeling like a very big girl that day - I also asked if she'd refer me to the hospital so I could get my BCG vaccination - I'd never had it done in school because I was so scared of the needle that I couldn't stop flinching. In the end I had the vaccination done at the chest clinic at Addenbrookes. A friend of mine was a nurse in that clinic at the time. She was rather a large lady - as the needle came in my direction, she just sat on me. Funnily enough, no flinching - but then I couldn't move so that might've had something to do with it. All those requests in one day - and did I did a sweetie for my bravery? Did I fuck...
Of course, with NHS waiting lists being what they are, it was two years before I saw anyone, so in total I spent about 5 years of my life stuck on the ground floor. Last Tuesday I had a reminder of why I was so scared of lifts when I used the one in The Plaza Shopping Centre on Oxford Street. For some reason they'd decided to deck the walls with padded lining (that could make an interesting Christmas carol) making the lift resemble Renfield's cell in Bram Stoker's Dracula.
Yes, um, er, phobia of kitchen sink. Did I mention I was ill last week?
Well, I think whatever virus had me convinced on Friday morning that my limbs weighed 7 stone each has had some kind of long-term effect on me, as I've started behaving quite out of character.
I'm terrified of confrontation. When aggressive people start yelling and screaming at me, I just let them abuse me rather than yelling back and letting it turn into a fight. I just can't deal with it. So, imagine my surprise at myself yesterday when I found myself going up to a man in the car park of Brent Cross Shopping Centre and calling him a "cunt".
I admit it. I'd fallen victim to car park rage. The crip car park at Brent Cross is probably the most competitive environment I've ever been in - remember I've swum for my country. I was the first in the car park. I'd positioned myself in a suitable position to start a queue should anyone feel like pulling up behind me. Some elderly twat in a Honda was not playing by those rules. He was having the next car parking space which became available, no matter how many little old ladies he had to rev his engine at. Of course, he managed to block me from getting into the first empty space, negated to acknowledge my horn blowing and stole a space from right in front of my face.
Another bay became available about a minute later (I'd only been queueing for about 20. That's fine. I wasn't in a hurry to shop anyway). So I got out of my car and put my wheelchair together. He was still sitting in his car, and he had his window rolled down. I'd never done anything like it before, but wheeling up to his car, stopping at his window and swearing at him was incredibly theraputic.
Isn't that odd? But my out of character behaviour continued...
I hate Christmas. I've never had a happy one. I'm always ill, there was that year when both my parents were in hospital over Christmas and New Year (though pity for the poor child in that situation got me my first CD player), my Nana died just before Christmas a few years ago - it's just always a nightmare. I want stripey sweets that make noises like sheep.
I'm also a horrifically disorganised person. Most people get their Crimbo pressies from me in January. Or even February if I decide that January sales are too traumatic for my low tolerance with Bargain Hunters (it's the colour of David Dickinson, he reminds me of my A'level theatre studies teacher). But, yesterday I started buying my Christmas presents. WE'RE IN FUCKING OCTOBER! What is wrong with me? This is not right. This virus must've caused some kind of brain damage.
Deck the lifts with padded lining
Tra la la la la, la la la la.
Unfortunately, I live alone, am single, and have no friends living close by. All I needed was someone to fetch me soup, and put more blankets over my poorly, cold feet. The only company I got of course was my rodent room-mate, who I thought had been banished, but it appears it was only temporary. He's now found his way into the cupboard beneath my kitchen sink. My kitchen sink is made of metal. On Saturday morning, my rodent roomie woke me up by trying to gnaw his way through it. It was one of the loudest things I have ever heard, and as a result, I'm now developing a slight phobia of my kitchen sink. Or, at least, that's my excuse for not washing up, and I'm sticking to it.
It'd be nice for a change to have a phobia which stopped me from doing something I hate doing anyway. I've now twice had therapy to get me over a phobia. When I was a child, I wouldn't go to bed until my mum had strip searched my room incase there were any spiders in there. Of course, they'd be in hiding until after I'd gone to bed, when they'd come out to show off. Because they're evil little fuckers. In the end my mother decided she'd had enough of this and dragged me kicking and screaming into the therapists office. And kicking and screaming is literally what I did, as she kept holding jars with spiders in in front of my face.
My other phobia was lifts. Yes, you are allowed to laugh, many people have. Of course, being a wheelchair user who couldn't go in a lift at all made my life very difficult. At 16 I decided it was just ridiculous, so I went to see my GP who referred me to the psychotherapy dept at the hospital. I was feeling like a very big girl that day - I also asked if she'd refer me to the hospital so I could get my BCG vaccination - I'd never had it done in school because I was so scared of the needle that I couldn't stop flinching. In the end I had the vaccination done at the chest clinic at Addenbrookes. A friend of mine was a nurse in that clinic at the time. She was rather a large lady - as the needle came in my direction, she just sat on me. Funnily enough, no flinching - but then I couldn't move so that might've had something to do with it. All those requests in one day - and did I did a sweetie for my bravery? Did I fuck...
Of course, with NHS waiting lists being what they are, it was two years before I saw anyone, so in total I spent about 5 years of my life stuck on the ground floor. Last Tuesday I had a reminder of why I was so scared of lifts when I used the one in The Plaza Shopping Centre on Oxford Street. For some reason they'd decided to deck the walls with padded lining (that could make an interesting Christmas carol) making the lift resemble Renfield's cell in Bram Stoker's Dracula.
Yes, um, er, phobia of kitchen sink. Did I mention I was ill last week?
Well, I think whatever virus had me convinced on Friday morning that my limbs weighed 7 stone each has had some kind of long-term effect on me, as I've started behaving quite out of character.
I'm terrified of confrontation. When aggressive people start yelling and screaming at me, I just let them abuse me rather than yelling back and letting it turn into a fight. I just can't deal with it. So, imagine my surprise at myself yesterday when I found myself going up to a man in the car park of Brent Cross Shopping Centre and calling him a "cunt".
I admit it. I'd fallen victim to car park rage. The crip car park at Brent Cross is probably the most competitive environment I've ever been in - remember I've swum for my country. I was the first in the car park. I'd positioned myself in a suitable position to start a queue should anyone feel like pulling up behind me. Some elderly twat in a Honda was not playing by those rules. He was having the next car parking space which became available, no matter how many little old ladies he had to rev his engine at. Of course, he managed to block me from getting into the first empty space, negated to acknowledge my horn blowing and stole a space from right in front of my face.
Another bay became available about a minute later (I'd only been queueing for about 20. That's fine. I wasn't in a hurry to shop anyway). So I got out of my car and put my wheelchair together. He was still sitting in his car, and he had his window rolled down. I'd never done anything like it before, but wheeling up to his car, stopping at his window and swearing at him was incredibly theraputic.
Isn't that odd? But my out of character behaviour continued...
I hate Christmas. I've never had a happy one. I'm always ill, there was that year when both my parents were in hospital over Christmas and New Year (though pity for the poor child in that situation got me my first CD player), my Nana died just before Christmas a few years ago - it's just always a nightmare. I want stripey sweets that make noises like sheep.
I'm also a horrifically disorganised person. Most people get their Crimbo pressies from me in January. Or even February if I decide that January sales are too traumatic for my low tolerance with Bargain Hunters (it's the colour of David Dickinson, he reminds me of my A'level theatre studies teacher). But, yesterday I started buying my Christmas presents. WE'RE IN FUCKING OCTOBER! What is wrong with me? This is not right. This virus must've caused some kind of brain damage.
Deck the lifts with padded lining
Tra la la la la, la la la la.
It's been a bad week if you're sensitive to offensive language. I've heard words and phrases used on the telly at tea-time while I was trying to watch my nice, inoffensive, Home & Away that almost had me bringing my tea back up.
Has the watershed been lifted? Are you now allowed to say "pissshitwankbollockscuntfucktwat" before 9pm? No. But regular readers should know that those words don't bother me anyway, and are in fact a regular part of my vocabulary.
So what happened? Well... Christopher Reeve, the world's most famous cripple, passed away. This of course gave newsreaders nationwide a chance to flex their offensive language muscles, and they took great advantage of the opportunity. During the news before Home & Away I was subjected to the phrase "wheelchair bound" and in the five hourly news bulletin straight afterwards they really outdid themselves bringing "confined to a wheelchair" into play.
As if his departure wasn't enough for one week, Inside I'm Dancing hit cinema screens nationwide on Friday. If you've failed to hear the controversy surrounding this film you must've been living under a rock. Or repeatedly clicking "refresh" on my blog page hoping I'd write something, which of course I failed to do for 9 days.
If you haven't heard all about it and feel the need to do some background reading, here are some worthwhile articles:
A blog entry by Emma Kennedy
An article from bbc.co.uk/ouch
An article from BBC News Online
Of course, whenever disability becomes noteworthy, there'll always be someone like those pricks responsible for the news on five that think terms derogatory to disabled people are acceptable. In relation to Inside I'm Dancing, the big offender has to be The Evening Standard with their review. The headline "Wheelchair rebels at large" could've been meant as an ironic take on how the world views disabled people wanting to lives their own lives as being "difficult" - but having read on, I doubt that was the case. Not a paragraph goes by without the words "brave", "sufferer", "carer", etc. being liberally used.
Oh, if only I had the power to edit that list of words that shouldn't be broadcast/published. You'd be hearing "cunt" on the Six O'Clock news, but never again would you be subjected to the sound of the word "brave". Oh yes.
I saw the film this evening. I have to confess that I've never been a fan of the "do as I say, not as I do" attitude. Or at least not since my learning support assistant in primary school would repeatedly tell me I should be nice to everyone all the time, whilst she was stabbing me in the back with her fingernails and bollocking me for having crap handwriting. "Do as I say, not as I do" basically sums up the film.
"Give disabled people rights. Let them live independently. Look - they even experience lust. What, give them a role in a film about them? Are you mad? They're only fucking cripples!"
I have to confess, I was surprised by how much I enjoyed the story. Shame about the acting. Neither of the main characters had me believing they might actually be disabled. Especially James McAvoy, who was supposed to be playing someone with Duchenne Muscular Dystrophy, yet visibly every muscle in his body was operating at full strength and clenched tightly. It just reminded me of bullies and their piss-poor impairment mimicking in the playground, accompanied by shouts of "handicapped spastic baby!"
The film was sold out, and it was quite distressing to notice the prejudice of the entire audience. For instance I was the only person in the room to laugh at Carrigmore's subtitle "A special place for special people". The one truly funny joke in the film. Yet bring on the suggestion that a crip likes looking at pictures of naked women - that's a hilarious notion! The simple act of driving an electric chair as fast as it will go and stopping suddenly was even enough to make this audience howl. If that's a hilarious act, howcome my childhood was so bloody miserable? Surely my Turbo should've kept me amused until puberty... And then there was that scene where the woman in the pub cringes at the thought of having to kiss a "spaz" - I thought the woman sitting next to me in the cinema might piss herself.
I said I was surprised by how much enjoyed the film - remember my expectations going into the auditorium were incredibly low. Needless to say I wasn't surprised with the scene in which the supermarket-shelf-stacker-turned-PA is giving Michael an impromptu speech therapy session in the kitchen. Because, of course, all disabled people could be normal if they just tried a bit harder. I nearly vomited into my empty popcorn bucket. Nor was I surprised by the outcome of the "who'll get the girl?" subplot.
Still, at least no-one threw spare change at me as I was leaving the cinema. Nor commended me on going out by myself. And, unlike when I left the cinema after Unbreakable, no-one looked like they wanted to kill me either. All of which I suppose are silver linings.
Has the watershed been lifted? Are you now allowed to say "pissshitwankbollockscuntfucktwat" before 9pm? No. But regular readers should know that those words don't bother me anyway, and are in fact a regular part of my vocabulary.
So what happened? Well... Christopher Reeve, the world's most famous cripple, passed away. This of course gave newsreaders nationwide a chance to flex their offensive language muscles, and they took great advantage of the opportunity. During the news before Home & Away I was subjected to the phrase "wheelchair bound" and in the five hourly news bulletin straight afterwards they really outdid themselves bringing "confined to a wheelchair" into play.
As if his departure wasn't enough for one week, Inside I'm Dancing hit cinema screens nationwide on Friday. If you've failed to hear the controversy surrounding this film you must've been living under a rock. Or repeatedly clicking "refresh" on my blog page hoping I'd write something, which of course I failed to do for 9 days.
If you haven't heard all about it and feel the need to do some background reading, here are some worthwhile articles:
A blog entry by Emma Kennedy
An article from bbc.co.uk/ouch
An article from BBC News Online
Of course, whenever disability becomes noteworthy, there'll always be someone like those pricks responsible for the news on five that think terms derogatory to disabled people are acceptable. In relation to Inside I'm Dancing, the big offender has to be The Evening Standard with their review. The headline "Wheelchair rebels at large" could've been meant as an ironic take on how the world views disabled people wanting to lives their own lives as being "difficult" - but having read on, I doubt that was the case. Not a paragraph goes by without the words "brave", "sufferer", "carer", etc. being liberally used.
Oh, if only I had the power to edit that list of words that shouldn't be broadcast/published. You'd be hearing "cunt" on the Six O'Clock news, but never again would you be subjected to the sound of the word "brave". Oh yes.
I saw the film this evening. I have to confess that I've never been a fan of the "do as I say, not as I do" attitude. Or at least not since my learning support assistant in primary school would repeatedly tell me I should be nice to everyone all the time, whilst she was stabbing me in the back with her fingernails and bollocking me for having crap handwriting. "Do as I say, not as I do" basically sums up the film.
"Give disabled people rights. Let them live independently. Look - they even experience lust. What, give them a role in a film about them? Are you mad? They're only fucking cripples!"
I have to confess, I was surprised by how much I enjoyed the story. Shame about the acting. Neither of the main characters had me believing they might actually be disabled. Especially James McAvoy, who was supposed to be playing someone with Duchenne Muscular Dystrophy, yet visibly every muscle in his body was operating at full strength and clenched tightly. It just reminded me of bullies and their piss-poor impairment mimicking in the playground, accompanied by shouts of "handicapped spastic baby!"
The film was sold out, and it was quite distressing to notice the prejudice of the entire audience. For instance I was the only person in the room to laugh at Carrigmore's subtitle "A special place for special people". The one truly funny joke in the film. Yet bring on the suggestion that a crip likes looking at pictures of naked women - that's a hilarious notion! The simple act of driving an electric chair as fast as it will go and stopping suddenly was even enough to make this audience howl. If that's a hilarious act, howcome my childhood was so bloody miserable? Surely my Turbo should've kept me amused until puberty... And then there was that scene where the woman in the pub cringes at the thought of having to kiss a "spaz" - I thought the woman sitting next to me in the cinema might piss herself.
I said I was surprised by how much enjoyed the film - remember my expectations going into the auditorium were incredibly low. Needless to say I wasn't surprised with the scene in which the supermarket-shelf-stacker-turned-PA is giving Michael an impromptu speech therapy session in the kitchen. Because, of course, all disabled people could be normal if they just tried a bit harder. I nearly vomited into my empty popcorn bucket. Nor was I surprised by the outcome of the "who'll get the girl?" subplot.
Still, at least no-one threw spare change at me as I was leaving the cinema. Nor commended me on going out by myself. And, unlike when I left the cinema after Unbreakable, no-one looked like they wanted to kill me either. All of which I suppose are silver linings.
09 October 2004
This morning I had the most amazing experience, completely by accident. And, no, I don't mean I ran into Sharleen Spiteri in Sainsbury's. That happened on Thursday evening, and I'm still slightly shocked that the goddess herself shops in my local superstore. I'm perhaps even more shocked that I just stared in a slightly creepy way as she paid and left, rather than throwing my shopping on the floor, sprinting over to her and flinging myself at her feet. I didn't know I had quite so much self-restraint.
No, this morning I got my revenge on my cycling twat of a neighbour, in such a suitable manner that it could only have happened 100% by chance.
I was on my way to have a shower this morning, as one does first thing. When of course, I had to try and squeeze my way past an inconsiderately parked bike trying to not rip off the towel which was covering my person on a protruding pedal therefore winding up standing naked in a communal corridor... as one does when one has a shared bathroom and an inconsiderate neighbour.
I got quite annoyed when I did end up colliding with the bike, though fortunately, it was only my elbow and not my towel that got hooked on the handlebars. What happened next made me chuckle for about half an hour...
The bike rolled down the steps leading to the bathroom and Mr Inconsiderate's door, pausing with the rear wheel resting on the edge of the bottom step, giving the bike the momentum to just be waiting for a bit more room to roll forward. While the front wheel lodged itself just in the join between the door frame and the door opening.
Basically, I'd gotten the bike primed into a position so that as soon as he opened his door, it would roll straight into him. I'm far too crap at physics to set up the bike in such a position, and it could only happen by accident. But how smug did I feel knowing that justice had been done. Well, almost... I still think I should've shoved that rodent corpse under his door too.
I seem to be surrounded by inconsiderate people. There's not just people in my building that don't understand reasonable social behaviour. The people that live next door to my "house" (which has been turned into six bedsits) also don't seem to be too neighbourly. They have a proper house, all to themselves (in London! That's just not fair!) and seem to be somewhat obsessed with D-I-Y [insert your own masturbation joke here]. While a few months ago I may have hypothesised about what I might do if I had a hammer... my neighbours do seem to hammer in the morning and hammer in the evening. Sadly, they don't hammer all over this land, but tend to focus their hammering attention on the other side of the wall which runs directly behind my bed [suggest that it might be a headboard banging against the wall here].
The noise is so regular now that I can only imagine what the other side of the wall must look like. Needless to say, I'm waiting to hear the wall itself boom "WE WILL TEAR YOUR SOUL APART!"
The other morning I was laying in bed, half asleep, and I could hear that sound of metal being sawed coming from their house that makes you clench your teeth, buttocks and anything else clenchable. Now, remember that I don't only have inconsiderate neighbours, but I live next to a train track too. The sound of screeching metal, combined with not being fully conscious had me convinced that I was about to be joined in bed by the 08:34 to St Pancras.
I suppose at least it would've been some company for a change...
No, this morning I got my revenge on my cycling twat of a neighbour, in such a suitable manner that it could only have happened 100% by chance.
I was on my way to have a shower this morning, as one does first thing. When of course, I had to try and squeeze my way past an inconsiderately parked bike trying to not rip off the towel which was covering my person on a protruding pedal therefore winding up standing naked in a communal corridor... as one does when one has a shared bathroom and an inconsiderate neighbour.
I got quite annoyed when I did end up colliding with the bike, though fortunately, it was only my elbow and not my towel that got hooked on the handlebars. What happened next made me chuckle for about half an hour...
The bike rolled down the steps leading to the bathroom and Mr Inconsiderate's door, pausing with the rear wheel resting on the edge of the bottom step, giving the bike the momentum to just be waiting for a bit more room to roll forward. While the front wheel lodged itself just in the join between the door frame and the door opening.
Basically, I'd gotten the bike primed into a position so that as soon as he opened his door, it would roll straight into him. I'm far too crap at physics to set up the bike in such a position, and it could only happen by accident. But how smug did I feel knowing that justice had been done. Well, almost... I still think I should've shoved that rodent corpse under his door too.
I seem to be surrounded by inconsiderate people. There's not just people in my building that don't understand reasonable social behaviour. The people that live next door to my "house" (which has been turned into six bedsits) also don't seem to be too neighbourly. They have a proper house, all to themselves (in London! That's just not fair!) and seem to be somewhat obsessed with D-I-Y [insert your own masturbation joke here]. While a few months ago I may have hypothesised about what I might do if I had a hammer... my neighbours do seem to hammer in the morning and hammer in the evening. Sadly, they don't hammer all over this land, but tend to focus their hammering attention on the other side of the wall which runs directly behind my bed [suggest that it might be a headboard banging against the wall here].
The noise is so regular now that I can only imagine what the other side of the wall must look like. Needless to say, I'm waiting to hear the wall itself boom "WE WILL TEAR YOUR SOUL APART!"
The other morning I was laying in bed, half asleep, and I could hear that sound of metal being sawed coming from their house that makes you clench your teeth, buttocks and anything else clenchable. Now, remember that I don't only have inconsiderate neighbours, but I live next to a train track too. The sound of screeching metal, combined with not being fully conscious had me convinced that I was about to be joined in bed by the 08:34 to St Pancras.
I suppose at least it would've been some company for a change...
06 October 2004
Last night I found myself in a ludicrously inaccessible cocktail bar, just down the road from my house. I was playing tour guide and trying to convince a couple of friends of mine that West Hampstead would be a really sensible place to move to. I'd never noticed that outside this bar was a big sign saying "4 to 8pm - 2for1 on beer and all cocktails". Which is very lax as it's not like me to fail to notice somewhere offering up cheap booze. Maybe I'd just noticed the three scarily steep steeps at the door and failed to notice their promotional material (just think how much extra business they could drum up if they only put in a ramp?)
As one of the friends I was with last night I've known to fight with other people about which one gets to help me, therefore show off who's the butchest; we decided to check out the cheap cocktails (I know ethically I shouldn't support inaccessible business. But I also shouldn't pay full price for cocktails when there's an alternative, right?). She definitely picked the nicest with her choice of West Hampstead Iced Tea.
Quite surprisingly I managed to survive the descent down the steep staircase with an appalling handrail to get to the toilet - and I didn't even wind up in an ambulance! Despite the fact that their external advertising failed to catch my eye, they seem to do most of their promotion internally anyway - most specifically, blown up exerpts from Time Out stuck on the back of the bog doors. Why? You're already in the bar... what's the fucking point of preaching to the converted?
From there we went for dinner. We ate in a restaurant I've mentioned in my blog before - the yummy Italian restaurant in West Hampstead with the The Best Toilet Graffitti In The World... Ever! I'd talked about the graffitti so much that my friends couldn't wait to go to the toilet to have a read. (I know, my life is very dull. I don't have much interesting to say.) I was the first one to go - and horror of horrors! They'd put a new toilet door on since the last time I went in there! It would appear that some establishment's don't share the same view on toilet door advertising as (s)wanky cocktail bars. Which is a shame as the toilet door in the restaurant served as something of a feedback book with comments like "The best pizza and pasta in London"
Another odd form of advertising I've noticed this week is actually quite alarming. You see, the entrance to my house is quite slippery, especially as at the moment there's the autumnal decomposition of leaves going on right outside me front door. If the shiny tiles and slippery leaves weren't enough of a recipe for a 999 call, there has been for the last few days a moist flyer laying on the step, in a prime position to be slipped over on. And what is the flyer advertising? 'Northwest Physiotherapy'. Perhaps if business is so slow that they need to recruit so proactively, I'll give them a miss.
Another advertising based observation I've made in the last few days is that health food shops really don't seem to tap in to the word of mouth format to the extent that they could. After all, people always seem to want to talk about vitamin supplements. Or at least they do as soon as they realise that the person they're talking to has an impairment that affects their bones.
"But can't you just take calcium tablets?"
"What for? I have Osteogenesis Imperfecta. Calcium would do me no good whatsoever."
"OK, well, isn't Vitamin C involved in making collagen? Can't you take loads of that?"
"It's not that my body produces too little collagen, my body just doesn't make it properly."
"Well can't you get collagen injections then?"
"Only if I want to look like Leslie Ash. And I don't think I need that, do you? After all, the slightly creepy guy that rammed a bit of metal through my bottom lip felt the need to point out (while he had my lip squished in a clamp) that 'oh, your lips are so beautiful... so big and soft'."
The latest one I've been told I should take is Glucosamine. Apparently it lubes up your joints. Like I need that, seeing as how all my joints that haven't been smashed are already hyperlax.
And then another issue on that is, how am I supposed to explain the Glucosamine to my completely shattered, no longer functional left ankle joint?
I'll now leave you with that mental image of me talking to my own foot.
As one of the friends I was with last night I've known to fight with other people about which one gets to help me, therefore show off who's the butchest; we decided to check out the cheap cocktails (I know ethically I shouldn't support inaccessible business. But I also shouldn't pay full price for cocktails when there's an alternative, right?). She definitely picked the nicest with her choice of West Hampstead Iced Tea.
Quite surprisingly I managed to survive the descent down the steep staircase with an appalling handrail to get to the toilet - and I didn't even wind up in an ambulance! Despite the fact that their external advertising failed to catch my eye, they seem to do most of their promotion internally anyway - most specifically, blown up exerpts from Time Out stuck on the back of the bog doors. Why? You're already in the bar... what's the fucking point of preaching to the converted?
From there we went for dinner. We ate in a restaurant I've mentioned in my blog before - the yummy Italian restaurant in West Hampstead with the The Best Toilet Graffitti In The World... Ever! I'd talked about the graffitti so much that my friends couldn't wait to go to the toilet to have a read. (I know, my life is very dull. I don't have much interesting to say.) I was the first one to go - and horror of horrors! They'd put a new toilet door on since the last time I went in there! It would appear that some establishment's don't share the same view on toilet door advertising as (s)wanky cocktail bars. Which is a shame as the toilet door in the restaurant served as something of a feedback book with comments like "The best pizza and pasta in London"
Another odd form of advertising I've noticed this week is actually quite alarming. You see, the entrance to my house is quite slippery, especially as at the moment there's the autumnal decomposition of leaves going on right outside me front door. If the shiny tiles and slippery leaves weren't enough of a recipe for a 999 call, there has been for the last few days a moist flyer laying on the step, in a prime position to be slipped over on. And what is the flyer advertising? 'Northwest Physiotherapy'. Perhaps if business is so slow that they need to recruit so proactively, I'll give them a miss.
Another advertising based observation I've made in the last few days is that health food shops really don't seem to tap in to the word of mouth format to the extent that they could. After all, people always seem to want to talk about vitamin supplements. Or at least they do as soon as they realise that the person they're talking to has an impairment that affects their bones.
"But can't you just take calcium tablets?"
"What for? I have Osteogenesis Imperfecta. Calcium would do me no good whatsoever."
"OK, well, isn't Vitamin C involved in making collagen? Can't you take loads of that?"
"It's not that my body produces too little collagen, my body just doesn't make it properly."
"Well can't you get collagen injections then?"
"Only if I want to look like Leslie Ash. And I don't think I need that, do you? After all, the slightly creepy guy that rammed a bit of metal through my bottom lip felt the need to point out (while he had my lip squished in a clamp) that 'oh, your lips are so beautiful... so big and soft'."
The latest one I've been told I should take is Glucosamine. Apparently it lubes up your joints. Like I need that, seeing as how all my joints that haven't been smashed are already hyperlax.
And then another issue on that is, how am I supposed to explain the Glucosamine to my completely shattered, no longer functional left ankle joint?
I'll now leave you with that mental image of me talking to my own foot.
04 October 2004
The things I've learnt this weekend:
1) The manager of my local Sainsbury's is possibly reading my blog, as feta cheese has come down three feet in height (psst. It should be 50p cheaper).
2) Nando's hate vegetarians. Or maybe they just decided I was fat, which was why all my meat eating friends got a full plate of food, while I got a plate of the same size - with one burger on it, and three quarters of a plate just supporting air.
3) I don't chew my food sufficiently.
4) As a result of number 3, I should not drunkenly throw up in my kitchen sink - because the chunks won't go down the plug hole.
5) Noticing poo on the floor of a bus really adds something to a journey, especially when you're already feeling slightly nauseous due to excessive alcohol consumption. The flip side of the coin though is noticing poo on the floor of the bus can be quite a relief, especially after the incident the other day... until the noticing point I had been paranoid that the smell may have been coming from my wheels.
6) I'm surprisingly fond of Vanilla Ice, even if I'm not sure I'd want to share a farmhouse with him.
7) I can still remember all the words to Ice Ice Baby.
8) Going to the zoo on a rainy day is a big mistake. You get wet. Though, the amount of money it costs to get in, I understand why the catchphrase says that rainy days are what you need to save your money for. But in future what little money I have will be spent on doing something beneath a roof.
9) I had been so impressed with my lighting up wheels on my wheelchair - until yesterday someone pointed out they were probably invented by a sadistic bastard who thought "Hmmm, you know what those people with mobility impairments need? Upper body exercise. Lets put lights in the front wheels that light up in more colours the faster they push!"
1) The manager of my local Sainsbury's is possibly reading my blog, as feta cheese has come down three feet in height (psst. It should be 50p cheaper).
2) Nando's hate vegetarians. Or maybe they just decided I was fat, which was why all my meat eating friends got a full plate of food, while I got a plate of the same size - with one burger on it, and three quarters of a plate just supporting air.
3) I don't chew my food sufficiently.
4) As a result of number 3, I should not drunkenly throw up in my kitchen sink - because the chunks won't go down the plug hole.
5) Noticing poo on the floor of a bus really adds something to a journey, especially when you're already feeling slightly nauseous due to excessive alcohol consumption. The flip side of the coin though is noticing poo on the floor of the bus can be quite a relief, especially after the incident the other day... until the noticing point I had been paranoid that the smell may have been coming from my wheels.
6) I'm surprisingly fond of Vanilla Ice, even if I'm not sure I'd want to share a farmhouse with him.
7) I can still remember all the words to Ice Ice Baby.
8) Going to the zoo on a rainy day is a big mistake. You get wet. Though, the amount of money it costs to get in, I understand why the catchphrase says that rainy days are what you need to save your money for. But in future what little money I have will be spent on doing something beneath a roof.
9) I had been so impressed with my lighting up wheels on my wheelchair - until yesterday someone pointed out they were probably invented by a sadistic bastard who thought "Hmmm, you know what those people with mobility impairments need? Upper body exercise. Lets put lights in the front wheels that light up in more colours the faster they push!"
30 September 2004
The Curious Incident of the Dog Poo on Euston Road
I knew yesterday was going to be an odd day when it started out with me sitting in a small, soundproofed room with the man who used to present Wheel of Fortune, with a paranoid conviction that blood was pouring out of my mouth (though that turned out to be just a mouth ulcer in a particularly unhappy mood).
Recently I've been doing quite a bit of media stuff for the Disability Rights Commission in promoting the implementation of new rights under the Disability Discrimination Act. You may have seen me on the 6 O'Clock News on BBC1 on Monday.
On Tuesday I was doing more of the similar, and I was on the breakfast show on Radio Five Live. This of course meant getting up and leaving the house at Offensive O'Clock. Being in a radio studio and being live on air was one of those experiences in life that you're glad to have had. Even if it would've been nicer had it been a few hours later in the day.
After a taxi came and whisked me from Television Centre to work, the day was fairly normal. Even down to the fact that I was supposed to meet a friend at 5pm and she once again demostrated her ability to be the only person in the world with the capacity to run even later than me.
As we wandered along Euston Road trying to decide in which direction to head for a curry (the best cure for a cold/blocked nose in the world) I was describing something simple and inane, in my typically over-animated style. So busy was I with gesticulating and trying to maintain eye-contact with my friend, I failed to noticed the giant turd on the pavement (despite the fact that my friend clearly wasn't as keen on maintaining eye-contact with me as she noticed and scremed "WATCH OUT!" just as my wheels bisected the steaming pile of a size which would denote it had been deposited by nothing other than a wolf).
I was less than happy. Especially as I not only had to clean poo off my rear wheel, but even my poor little flashy castors (which I had fitted last week) got such a coating that no-one would've noticed the lights inside. In some ways that may have been a good thing, as tonight when I went circuit training the instructor was so impressed with them that he felt the need to turn off the lights in the gym while everyone was running round to warm up. "How Lisy can cause a human pile up; method 16."
The only thing was, I couldn't have lived with the smell. And I like the flashy wheels.
Why was the incident curious? I don't know. I just thought it was quite a clever title. I guess "Did Camden council sue the dog's owner?" and "how can one being produce that much poo?" do bring in an element of curiosity.
The other odd thing was after my friend and I had had our curry, had a pint, and I was making my way home, I had someone come up to me and ask me if I need any help as I was pushing along the main road through West Hampstead.
"Why is that odd? We've been reading your blog for ages, we know that people offer you help in situations where you're in no distress at all because when they spot someone in a wheelchair, most people's notions of common sense are lost immediately."
Well, there were two odd things about the experience. Firstly, when she spotted me and felt compelled to cross the street to approach me, she didn't know how to use a Zebra crossing without angering all passing motorists. I suppose at least her opening line wasn't "Do you need any help to cross the road?" Secondly, she actually effectively stalked me for about a minute, following me close behind, not speaking to me and not being distracted from her self appointed task of following me up the road. Naturally I sped up, both hoping to avoid her, and I was trying to make my wheels light up in red, green and blue.
She finally spoke. "Can I help you, please?" It was the intonation of the 'please' that bothered me. It took any possible "Do you need help?" connotations out of the questions, and instead loaded the question with "It's 10pm, I've not yet helped a poor and needy person yet today. Don't make me lose sleep tonight."
And yes, I know I was on my way home from the pub a whole hour before closing time. But I got up at 5am. Deal with it.
Recently I've been doing quite a bit of media stuff for the Disability Rights Commission in promoting the implementation of new rights under the Disability Discrimination Act. You may have seen me on the 6 O'Clock News on BBC1 on Monday.
On Tuesday I was doing more of the similar, and I was on the breakfast show on Radio Five Live. This of course meant getting up and leaving the house at Offensive O'Clock. Being in a radio studio and being live on air was one of those experiences in life that you're glad to have had. Even if it would've been nicer had it been a few hours later in the day.
After a taxi came and whisked me from Television Centre to work, the day was fairly normal. Even down to the fact that I was supposed to meet a friend at 5pm and she once again demostrated her ability to be the only person in the world with the capacity to run even later than me.
As we wandered along Euston Road trying to decide in which direction to head for a curry (the best cure for a cold/blocked nose in the world) I was describing something simple and inane, in my typically over-animated style. So busy was I with gesticulating and trying to maintain eye-contact with my friend, I failed to noticed the giant turd on the pavement (despite the fact that my friend clearly wasn't as keen on maintaining eye-contact with me as she noticed and scremed "WATCH OUT!" just as my wheels bisected the steaming pile of a size which would denote it had been deposited by nothing other than a wolf).
I was less than happy. Especially as I not only had to clean poo off my rear wheel, but even my poor little flashy castors (which I had fitted last week) got such a coating that no-one would've noticed the lights inside. In some ways that may have been a good thing, as tonight when I went circuit training the instructor was so impressed with them that he felt the need to turn off the lights in the gym while everyone was running round to warm up. "How Lisy can cause a human pile up; method 16."
The only thing was, I couldn't have lived with the smell. And I like the flashy wheels.
Why was the incident curious? I don't know. I just thought it was quite a clever title. I guess "Did Camden council sue the dog's owner?" and "how can one being produce that much poo?" do bring in an element of curiosity.
The other odd thing was after my friend and I had had our curry, had a pint, and I was making my way home, I had someone come up to me and ask me if I need any help as I was pushing along the main road through West Hampstead.
"Why is that odd? We've been reading your blog for ages, we know that people offer you help in situations where you're in no distress at all because when they spot someone in a wheelchair, most people's notions of common sense are lost immediately."
Well, there were two odd things about the experience. Firstly, when she spotted me and felt compelled to cross the street to approach me, she didn't know how to use a Zebra crossing without angering all passing motorists. I suppose at least her opening line wasn't "Do you need any help to cross the road?" Secondly, she actually effectively stalked me for about a minute, following me close behind, not speaking to me and not being distracted from her self appointed task of following me up the road. Naturally I sped up, both hoping to avoid her, and I was trying to make my wheels light up in red, green and blue.
She finally spoke. "Can I help you, please?" It was the intonation of the 'please' that bothered me. It took any possible "Do you need help?" connotations out of the questions, and instead loaded the question with "It's 10pm, I've not yet helped a poor and needy person yet today. Don't make me lose sleep tonight."
And yes, I know I was on my way home from the pub a whole hour before closing time. But I got up at 5am. Deal with it.
24 September 2004
What colour are my pants?
I thought the pants I'm wearing today were purple... until I saw them laying on my bed next to my socks while I was getting dressed this morning. My socks I would describe as blue.
Seeing them next to each other though... they were pretty much the same colour.
So why would I look at one and think "purple" and then look at the other and think "blue" when in fact when you compare them directly, they're the same.
The pants colour question got more interesting just now. Someone said to me "Is your skin really that white?" I touched my back and realised my huge pants had ridden up above the level of my trousers. Being so huge they managed to ride up that far and not even give me a hint of a wedgie. As a frame of reference, they're a bit like my Dad's trouser's now he's reached that age where his elasticated waist band doubles up as a training bra.
"Oh, no, it's my pants."
"Good, because no-one wants skin that colour."
She thought my pants were white. Or she could think I was so ill that my skin had gone beyond white into blue.
I'm tempted to photograph my pants and put them on the internet to let others make up their own mind.
Seeing them next to each other though... they were pretty much the same colour.
So why would I look at one and think "purple" and then look at the other and think "blue" when in fact when you compare them directly, they're the same.
The pants colour question got more interesting just now. Someone said to me "Is your skin really that white?" I touched my back and realised my huge pants had ridden up above the level of my trousers. Being so huge they managed to ride up that far and not even give me a hint of a wedgie. As a frame of reference, they're a bit like my Dad's trouser's now he's reached that age where his elasticated waist band doubles up as a training bra.
"Oh, no, it's my pants."
"Good, because no-one wants skin that colour."
She thought my pants were white. Or she could think I was so ill that my skin had gone beyond white into blue.
I'm tempted to photograph my pants and put them on the internet to let others make up their own mind.
20 September 2004
Of mice corpses and men
Does anyone reading my blog get the impression that I'm not overly fond of my current abode?
While I was enjoying the delights of Edinburgh last month, the guy who lived in the room next door to mine moved out of hell, and was immediately replace by someone whom I'd not had this misfortune of meeting until this evening.
Though I had not met him until today, I had concluded that:
a) he was a he.
b) he was a twat.
I'll begin with point b.
He's a cyclist. I'm imagining one of those god awful ones that constantly run red traffic lights, and then try and sue the driver of the vehicle proceeding rightly through the green light that smashes into them.
Want to know why I'm imagining this? Because of his complete lack of consideration for his neighbours when he's not got his buttocks bisected by a saddle that looks more like a dildo. Most specifically, the fact that he consistently leaves his bike parked right outside my bedroom door, so I end up covered in crap off the chain trying to get past to go to the bog. Or there was the time he blocked the access to the washing machine. And the time he parked it on the steps leading down to the toilet (I'd mentioned that my shithole was also impossibly inaccessible in another post) so I couldn't get to cling on to the wall to get up/down them.
As if this inconsiderate behaviour wasn't enough to lead me to point a (sorry to any nice men reading this, I hate to gender stereotype. But it's true) I then the other day noticed boxer shorts hanging on the washing line in the back garden (OK, I know that also doesn't definitely denote gender, but it's a reasonably good indicator).
You may be wondering "Why is Lisy so hard on him? He's living in a shit bedsit too. It's not his fault if there's nowhere out the front of the house to safely leave a bike, and the corridor isn't suitably wide enough to accommodate it."
If you are, then think back to two paragraphs ago. I mentioned that he had hung his boxer shorts on the washing line in the back garden. Yes ladies and gentlemen, he and me are the only two people in the building with access to the back garden. He could push his bike straight through his room, out into the garden. Voila, it's in no-ones way (it'd also be safer as only 2 of us have access to the garden, whereas 6 people live in the building. And it's not like I could steal it even if I wanted to!)
But no. He's a twat. He's also stealing my toilet paper.
This evening I was returning to my room, from the bathroom, when who should walk through the front door, clutching a wheeled vehicle designed to roam in the great outdoors, and not be confined to a hallway in hell? Mr cycley man.
Was he polite and apologetic about blocking up the hallway with his bike? No. He ran it straight into me. Did he say sorry? No. Did he then just leave it on the steps so I couldn't get up them? Oh, yes.
This morning in a state of hungoverness I was laying awake in bed trying to not disturb the lady laying next to me (don't worry, it was perfectly innocent. I couldn't have you thinking I was interesting now could I? I am quite blatantly the world’s least likely gossip topic). My building being as horrifically unsoundproofed as it is, I could hear the girly whinging of 2 women passing my door to go up the stairs. Apparently they'd just seen a mouse corpse. I do so hope it was the one that stole my crackers. That would be justice.
I now have a feeling of vengeance creeping over me. I plan to find that former rodent and shove it under my neighbour’s door. Wrapped in toilet paper of course, before I remove my roll of blue Tesco's luxury soft from the bathroom and proceed to live a life like someone on an eternal camping holiday and take my paper with me on every journey.
Well, I would. If I didn't find the thought of touching dead mice scarier than knowing they're running around, uninhibited behind my TV.
While I was enjoying the delights of Edinburgh last month, the guy who lived in the room next door to mine moved out of hell, and was immediately replace by someone whom I'd not had this misfortune of meeting until this evening.
Though I had not met him until today, I had concluded that:
a) he was a he.
b) he was a twat.
I'll begin with point b.
He's a cyclist. I'm imagining one of those god awful ones that constantly run red traffic lights, and then try and sue the driver of the vehicle proceeding rightly through the green light that smashes into them.
Want to know why I'm imagining this? Because of his complete lack of consideration for his neighbours when he's not got his buttocks bisected by a saddle that looks more like a dildo. Most specifically, the fact that he consistently leaves his bike parked right outside my bedroom door, so I end up covered in crap off the chain trying to get past to go to the bog. Or there was the time he blocked the access to the washing machine. And the time he parked it on the steps leading down to the toilet (I'd mentioned that my shithole was also impossibly inaccessible in another post) so I couldn't get to cling on to the wall to get up/down them.
As if this inconsiderate behaviour wasn't enough to lead me to point a (sorry to any nice men reading this, I hate to gender stereotype. But it's true) I then the other day noticed boxer shorts hanging on the washing line in the back garden (OK, I know that also doesn't definitely denote gender, but it's a reasonably good indicator).
You may be wondering "Why is Lisy so hard on him? He's living in a shit bedsit too. It's not his fault if there's nowhere out the front of the house to safely leave a bike, and the corridor isn't suitably wide enough to accommodate it."
If you are, then think back to two paragraphs ago. I mentioned that he had hung his boxer shorts on the washing line in the back garden. Yes ladies and gentlemen, he and me are the only two people in the building with access to the back garden. He could push his bike straight through his room, out into the garden. Voila, it's in no-ones way (it'd also be safer as only 2 of us have access to the garden, whereas 6 people live in the building. And it's not like I could steal it even if I wanted to!)
But no. He's a twat. He's also stealing my toilet paper.
This evening I was returning to my room, from the bathroom, when who should walk through the front door, clutching a wheeled vehicle designed to roam in the great outdoors, and not be confined to a hallway in hell? Mr cycley man.
Was he polite and apologetic about blocking up the hallway with his bike? No. He ran it straight into me. Did he say sorry? No. Did he then just leave it on the steps so I couldn't get up them? Oh, yes.
This morning in a state of hungoverness I was laying awake in bed trying to not disturb the lady laying next to me (don't worry, it was perfectly innocent. I couldn't have you thinking I was interesting now could I? I am quite blatantly the world’s least likely gossip topic). My building being as horrifically unsoundproofed as it is, I could hear the girly whinging of 2 women passing my door to go up the stairs. Apparently they'd just seen a mouse corpse. I do so hope it was the one that stole my crackers. That would be justice.
I now have a feeling of vengeance creeping over me. I plan to find that former rodent and shove it under my neighbour’s door. Wrapped in toilet paper of course, before I remove my roll of blue Tesco's luxury soft from the bathroom and proceed to live a life like someone on an eternal camping holiday and take my paper with me on every journey.
Well, I would. If I didn't find the thought of touching dead mice scarier than knowing they're running around, uninhibited behind my TV.
16 September 2004
Everything You Always Wanted to Know About Lisy Babe And Did Ask
steveR asked:
1. Sun tan or sun block?
I know this is a naughty confession, but I am a bit partial to the tanning. Not to the extent that I'd use a sunbed, but I do try and make the most of the sun. I'd never want one of those horrible tans where people look all wizened and like they've been baked though. The reason for liking the sun is because, like glasses, I also think freckles are sexy. When I catch the sun I get freckles across my nose/cheeks and on my shoulders. I know I'm the most repulsive looking being on the planet, and I'd like to not be. And, as Tesco's say, "Every Little Helps!"
2. what is your bigegst tip for finding time to blog?
Given the sporadicness of my updating, I doubt I'm qualified to answer that. The reason I blog so rarely is because I'm far too busy watching TV and vacantly staring into space.
3. Spain or Kenya?
I've been to Spain a few times, but never Kenya. And, Kenya... coffee... what with my caffeine addiction and all... mmmm.
4. have you had that tea with the lass from upstairs?
No, I haven't. I still experience a lot of inner turmoil about that though.
Pam asked:
What one thing would you like to invent that doesn't already exist ?
A levitator. I'd love to be able to be able to just lay back and float into work. And think of all the access advantages... there'd be nowhere I couldn't go cos I could just hover. I'm aware that politically that is highly unacceptable to me, as it's returning to the notion that my impairment is my problem, and it'd be letting society off without having to change and rethink. But it would be kinda cool. I'd never get anything done though just cos when I'm laying in bed and night, picturing myself hovering off I imagine it feels incredibly soothing. So I suspect I'd spend even more time "napping" than I do now.
neil h asked:
- why do you blog?
Because I like to talk about myself. A lot.
- what is your favourite pizza?
I don't really have one. I'm not an overly fussy eater, but I do hate mushrooms more than any other food stuff on this planet (they're vile, evil and the food of the devil), and sadly they seem to be the staple component of most vegetarian pizzas. So quite often I just end up with a Margherita. If I go down the create your own route, I'll usually opt for onions, peppers, jalapeño's and extra cheese. When I lived in Uxbridge, there was a local pizza place that did a hot veggie pizza with chilli's, red kidney beans, etc on top, and then the sauce spread on the base was chilli sauce rather than the standard tomato sauce used in pizza production. It tasted nice, but the next morning I wished I'd had the foresight to put a toilet roll in the freezer.
- what was the last cd/book/dvd that you heard/read/watched?
Keane's "Hopes and Fears"/"The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time" by Mark Haddon and Shaun of the Dead. Clearly I should not be allowed to interact with humans as I have no independent thought seeing as how I only read/hear/watch things which are currently trendy/highly promoted/discussed.
- what advice would you give yourself if you could go back in time?
I'd probably tell a 15 year old me to stop being such a fucking stubborn cow in my refusal to ever go see my GP. That and "stop fooling around with boys. You know you're going to be a lesbian when you grow up." I did have a bizarre dream a couple of weeks ago about going back in time - I saved loads of children by using my time travelling skills to go back and set off the fire alarm just before a school exploded.
- what makes you smile?
Imagining Sharleen Spiteri naked?
Aliya asked:
1) What's the most embarassing thing that has ever happened to you?
I think probably being on the TV show We Are The Champions. Just because I ultimately ended up being quite a successful swimmer, and it's probably the only thing I've ever been any good at. Of course, on the show the camera zoomed in on my swimming, and at the age of 12, my technique for all strokes was so appalling, I'm utterly shamed by it. Sorry, no stories about public nudity - getting my tits out in pubs is somthing I used to do all the time, and never really bothered me.
2) What is your ideal career?
When I grow up, I think I'd like to be a comic (I don't mean I'd wanna be Spiderman - I'd frighten myself). Admin for a living isn't exactly what I had in mind when I applied to do that Film Studies & Drama degree. But, hey-ho. Yes, one day I'd like to sit on a stage and tell people funny stories (a bit like stand-up, but I don't have the knees for that). However, Gabrielle may of once claimed that "dreams can come true," but she is a liar. She is also the anti-role model for anyone with any impairment or disfigurement. But that's enough of my opinionatedness. The idea of writing also appeals to me, and one of my many dreams is to write a newspaper/magazine column.
3) Do you think you'll ever be happy?
Of course! Sharleen and I, making love by an open fire in the winter, wine, candles etc. Living in our lovely house, knowing that the children are tucked up safely in bed...
I think that never being satisfied with your lot is part of the human condition. It makes us strive to achieve better and more. But, satisfied is different to happy, even though the two intermingle so closely, and unless you're at least quite satisfied with your life, you can't be truly happy. I know that if I was living somewhere I felt safe that I could at the very least come off the anti-depressants, and I'm fairly sure that if I was working towards a proper career that I loved that I'd start coming closer towards being happy. I'm also a hopeless romantic and have a strong maternal instinct, and I think a family will be key to me achieving true happiness.
Rute asked:
ever had your bra up your arse?
No. But did I ever mention that time that I met Ellen DeGeneres?
What is the square root of 246546512645432?
Now, while I may never of had a bra in my arse... the next time Rute is in London she will be asking medical staff to surgically extract undergarments. Underwired.
1. Sun tan or sun block?
I know this is a naughty confession, but I am a bit partial to the tanning. Not to the extent that I'd use a sunbed, but I do try and make the most of the sun. I'd never want one of those horrible tans where people look all wizened and like they've been baked though. The reason for liking the sun is because, like glasses, I also think freckles are sexy. When I catch the sun I get freckles across my nose/cheeks and on my shoulders. I know I'm the most repulsive looking being on the planet, and I'd like to not be. And, as Tesco's say, "Every Little Helps!"
2. what is your bigegst tip for finding time to blog?
Given the sporadicness of my updating, I doubt I'm qualified to answer that. The reason I blog so rarely is because I'm far too busy watching TV and vacantly staring into space.
3. Spain or Kenya?
I've been to Spain a few times, but never Kenya. And, Kenya... coffee... what with my caffeine addiction and all... mmmm.
4. have you had that tea with the lass from upstairs?
No, I haven't. I still experience a lot of inner turmoil about that though.
Pam asked:
What one thing would you like to invent that doesn't already exist ?
A levitator. I'd love to be able to be able to just lay back and float into work. And think of all the access advantages... there'd be nowhere I couldn't go cos I could just hover. I'm aware that politically that is highly unacceptable to me, as it's returning to the notion that my impairment is my problem, and it'd be letting society off without having to change and rethink. But it would be kinda cool. I'd never get anything done though just cos when I'm laying in bed and night, picturing myself hovering off I imagine it feels incredibly soothing. So I suspect I'd spend even more time "napping" than I do now.
neil h asked:
- why do you blog?
Because I like to talk about myself. A lot.
- what is your favourite pizza?
I don't really have one. I'm not an overly fussy eater, but I do hate mushrooms more than any other food stuff on this planet (they're vile, evil and the food of the devil), and sadly they seem to be the staple component of most vegetarian pizzas. So quite often I just end up with a Margherita. If I go down the create your own route, I'll usually opt for onions, peppers, jalapeño's and extra cheese. When I lived in Uxbridge, there was a local pizza place that did a hot veggie pizza with chilli's, red kidney beans, etc on top, and then the sauce spread on the base was chilli sauce rather than the standard tomato sauce used in pizza production. It tasted nice, but the next morning I wished I'd had the foresight to put a toilet roll in the freezer.
- what was the last cd/book/dvd that you heard/read/watched?
Keane's "Hopes and Fears"/"The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time" by Mark Haddon and Shaun of the Dead. Clearly I should not be allowed to interact with humans as I have no independent thought seeing as how I only read/hear/watch things which are currently trendy/highly promoted/discussed.
- what advice would you give yourself if you could go back in time?
I'd probably tell a 15 year old me to stop being such a fucking stubborn cow in my refusal to ever go see my GP. That and "stop fooling around with boys. You know you're going to be a lesbian when you grow up." I did have a bizarre dream a couple of weeks ago about going back in time - I saved loads of children by using my time travelling skills to go back and set off the fire alarm just before a school exploded.
- what makes you smile?
Imagining Sharleen Spiteri naked?
Aliya asked:
1) What's the most embarassing thing that has ever happened to you?
I think probably being on the TV show We Are The Champions. Just because I ultimately ended up being quite a successful swimmer, and it's probably the only thing I've ever been any good at. Of course, on the show the camera zoomed in on my swimming, and at the age of 12, my technique for all strokes was so appalling, I'm utterly shamed by it. Sorry, no stories about public nudity - getting my tits out in pubs is somthing I used to do all the time, and never really bothered me.
2) What is your ideal career?
When I grow up, I think I'd like to be a comic (I don't mean I'd wanna be Spiderman - I'd frighten myself). Admin for a living isn't exactly what I had in mind when I applied to do that Film Studies & Drama degree. But, hey-ho. Yes, one day I'd like to sit on a stage and tell people funny stories (a bit like stand-up, but I don't have the knees for that). However, Gabrielle may of once claimed that "dreams can come true," but she is a liar. She is also the anti-role model for anyone with any impairment or disfigurement. But that's enough of my opinionatedness. The idea of writing also appeals to me, and one of my many dreams is to write a newspaper/magazine column.
3) Do you think you'll ever be happy?
Of course! Sharleen and I, making love by an open fire in the winter, wine, candles etc. Living in our lovely house, knowing that the children are tucked up safely in bed...
I think that never being satisfied with your lot is part of the human condition. It makes us strive to achieve better and more. But, satisfied is different to happy, even though the two intermingle so closely, and unless you're at least quite satisfied with your life, you can't be truly happy. I know that if I was living somewhere I felt safe that I could at the very least come off the anti-depressants, and I'm fairly sure that if I was working towards a proper career that I loved that I'd start coming closer towards being happy. I'm also a hopeless romantic and have a strong maternal instinct, and I think a family will be key to me achieving true happiness.
Rute asked:
ever had your bra up your arse?
No. But did I ever mention that time that I met Ellen DeGeneres?
What is the square root of 246546512645432?
Now, while I may never of had a bra in my arse... the next time Rute is in London she will be asking medical staff to surgically extract undergarments. Underwired.
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