The little girl who would never grow up.

Today's Dictionary.com Word of the Day is bowdlerize.

I saw the following synopsis on the RSS feed this morning:

"To remove or modify the parts considered offensive."

I'm aware that the word is usually used in relation to literature and the like, but the wording of that synopsis reminded me of something I've been meaning to write about.

You've probably all read by now about the case of Ashley, the girl whose parents fantasy of turning their disabled child into Peter Pan was realised.

This poor girl has been on my mind a lot since the news story first broke. Her, and all the subsequent children who are going to be mutilated for no real reason except that their parents find the idea of a disabled child "cute," but a disabled adult "repulsive."

Don't believe that that's a mindset that exists? Compare the number of charities raising money to buy appropriate equipment such as decent wheelchairs for children compared to the number supporting adults. Compare the income of those raising money for cute kids compared to those raising money for icky gross adults.

Ashley's parents say:

"In our opinion, only parents with special-needs children are in a position to fully relate to this topic."

Thus completely disregarding the opinions and feelings of disabled people (including their daughter) because we're not as important as the non-disableds most crips crawled out of. A fairly typical non-disabled attitude of "I know about you better than you ever possibly could."

Despite the fact that Ashley's parents (who prefer to remain anonymous, presumably to protect them from claims of child abuse) want disabled people to be small, seen and not heard; unsurprisingly disabled people the world over are taking Ashley's side rather than that of her parents.

When a parent is prepared to mutilate and chemically alter their child to such an extent, it's obvious that the child isn't properly cared for. The parents state in their blog that:

She has a sweet demeanour and often smiles and expresses delight when we visit with her;"

and:

"We constantly feel the desire to visit her room."

Visit with her? You're saying the reason you butchered her was so she could continue to live with you, and you could "care" for her at home... yet she's not integrated into family life? You have to "visit" her? What sort of childhood is that?

They go on to say that as a result of the shrinking drugs:

"[Ashley can be] taken on trips more frequently and will have more exposure to activities and social gatherings (for example, in the family room, backyard, swing, walks, bathtub, etc)"

I'm sorry, but there's no reason someone of whatever size can't sit in the family room or go on trips. Wheelchairs and adapted vehicles so a passenger (and even a driver, though with the mental capacity of a 3 month old, I think it's safe to say that Ashley won't be picking up her driving licence any time soon) can travel in their chair have been invented. Hell, I'd have stolen my parents adapted van and given it to her parents if I could have prevented her from being put through this. (My mother reading this is probably now planning on removing my name as a driver from her car insurance policy).

And as for:

"She will continue to fit in and be bathed in a standard size bathtub. Since Ashley can’t sit, she needs to lie down in the bathtub. Without the treatment eventually she would stop fitting in a standard size bathtub."

If it was my child that I loved, I'd buy a bigger bath. I'd fork out to get a bath custom made if I had to (and, let's face it, it'd probably be cheaper than all the butchering, which I bet your medical insurance didn't cover).

These people are desperately clutching at straws to justify what they've done to their daughter. Unfortunately for them, their reasons are transparent. It comes back to disabled kids being cute, disabled adults not. They wouldn't want an unsightly adult that drools and wears a nappy in their family room, they'd be ashamed and embarrassed to take that adult on trips. But as long as she looks like a child and they can pass her off as one in public, she'll remain bearable to have around.

"To put our decision process in perspective, it is not uncommon for parents with children who have cancer or birth defects to pursue significantly more intrusive treatment (chemotherapy or radiation therapy)."

Erm, yeah... right. Forgive me, but aren't chemotherapy and radiation therapy life saving or at least life prolonging treatments? How much longer is Ashley going to live because you whipped out her uterus, whipped off her nawkes and fucked with her hormones. Oh, yeah, that's right:

"She is expected to live a full life."

And was before you started paying doctors to tamper with her.

"There was one legal issue that we needed to investigate related to "sterilisation" of a disabled person. Upon consultation with a lawyer specialising in disability law, we found out that the law does not apply to Ashley's case due to the severity of her disability, which makes voluntary reproduction impossible. The law is intended to protect women with mild disability who might chose to become pregnant at some future point, and should have the right to do so."

I never knew about that piece of legislation existing in America. I'm relieved to read it does. I read on an internet messageboard about an Australian woman with the same impairment as me who, aged 4, broke her leg whilst on holiday and so went to a different hospital than usual. The doctor treating her leg told her parents "we might as well do the hysterectomy while she's here. You don't want a child like this menstruating." Her parents had the sense to scoop her up and run, but she reported that she'd heard that the same doctor had sterilised other young girls with OI, with disastrous consequences.

What does he think's going to happen if girls with OI are left in one piece? That we'll break our pelvis' changing tampons? That we won't be able to maintain a sanitary regimen if our arms are plastered? (I know from personal experience that it's possible to change a tampon even if your dominant arm is in a pot).

Coming back to Ashley, what about her future? What about the people that have woken up from a persistent vegetative state after being given sleeping pills? What about the people thought braindead who have proven that their brain is/was alert the whole time? What about all those autistic people who were thought for most of their lives to be a "vegetable" who turned out to be exceedingly bright when given the right communication tools?

I'm not saying that Ashley will one day suddenly "wake up" and "be normal". But medical advances happen every day, and what about the possibility that she "might"? What if she does and wants to marry and have kids. Shouldn't the law against involuntary sterilisation have protected her too?

"We also had concerns about Ashley's breasts developing and becoming a source of discomfort while [...] strapped across the chest area in her wheelchair, particularly since there is a family history of large breasts and other related issues."

They are aware that chest straps for busty ladies have been invented, right? I've seen them. I have a well endowed friend who has one fitted to her wheelchair. Originally she had fitted a chest strap designed for a man, and, as I recall, she did find it uncomfortable (and if I'm honest, it did make her boobs look kinda silly too). So, she had one designed for women fitted. Problem solved, cheaper and much less painful and intrusive than surgery. Did Ashley's parents consider any alternatives to a knife?

"she is helpless when bothered and her only recourse is to cry until someone comes to her rescue. These episodes are triggered by something as simple as sliding off the pillow or a hair landing on her face and tickling/bothering her, let alone menstrual cramps, adult-level bed sores, and discomfort caused by large breasts."

"The surgeon also performed an appendectomy during the surgery, since there is a chance of 5% of developing appendicitis in the general population, and this additional procedure presented no additional risk. If Ashley's appendix acts up, she would not be able to communicate the resulting pain."

So, how is she going to communicate the pain of a broken bone? When she screams, how are you going to know what's wrong with her? As Flash points out "And how much research has been done into the effects of aging on a child's body? I expect it will bring its own problems sooner or later - osteoporosis for a start."

Her parents claim that:

"We learned that attenuating growth is feasible through high-dose oestrogen therapy. This treatment was performed on teenage girls in the 60s and 70s, when it wasn't desirable for girls to be tall, with no negative or long-term side effects."

But, erm, "no long term side effects?" The women who had that treatment will still only be in their 40s now. And did you research as to how many of them are developing Osteoporosis at that age? Or how severe it is in comparison to other menopausal and post-menopausal women?

Ashley's parents and doctors did at least have the sense to leave behind her ovaries, so she has her hormones which will help protect her against Osteoporosis, but even before she'd had her hormones messed with, she was still a high risk candidate for it because:

"We call her our "Pillow Angel" since she is so sweet and stays right where we place her - usually on a pillow."

Here's news for ya pal: Pillow Angeling ain't good for ya bones. It used to be believed that babies and children with Osteogenesis Imperfecta should be put on a beanbag or pillow, and just left there. Not touched, not encouraged to move, just left still. Until it was found that it was worse for the children concerned (though some doctors who haven't updated their medical knowledge since they became a doctor many moons ago still believe that. I understand that OT's specialising in OI still throw a lot of beanbags in the bin). See, movement helps increase bone density. Not moving doesn't.

I know Ashley doesn't have OI, but she's still immobile, and kids without OI benefit from movement, especially impact exercise.

I appreciate that Ashley won't be running any marathons, but her parents and doctors must be aware of the negative impact that immobility will have on her bones, and so surely they shouldn't be doing anything which may jeopardise her bone health even more? Especially given her inability to communicate where it hurts?

"Ashley has no need for her uterus since she will not be bearing children. This procedure will avoid the menstrual cycle and all the bleeding/discomfort/pain/cramps that are so commonly associated with it."

If Ashley is obviously in pain, and you know it's because she's got her period (which you will, you'll see the blood when you change her incontinence pad), why not resort to a less invasive option, one women have resorted to for many years - painkillers.

"Ashley spent four days in the hospital under close supervision and, thanks to aggressive pain control, her discomfort appeared minimal."

So she's not allergic to painkillers then? So, how about some painkilling drugs in a liquid suspension mixed with her food and administered via her feeding tube? I've just taken some paracetamol (acetaminophen for any American readers) for period pain. Works like a charm. And even if it didn't, there are stronger painkillers available from your doctor, all less drastic than major surgery.

"Large breasts could “sexualize” Ashley towards her caregiver, especially when they are touched while she is being moved or handled, inviting the possibility of abuse."

I'm so surprised I've not read any objections from feminists about this. It only seems to be disabled people offended by what's been done to this child. What her parents are saying is that the way to prevent a woman from being raped is to fix the woman, to remove temptation. Then all is right with the world.

If a child-like body makes a female unsexy, how do Ashley's parents explain paedophilia?

"Additional and incidental benefits include avoiding any possibility of pregnancy, which to our astonishment does occur to disabled women who are abused."

So it's OK to rape a woman who can't tell on her abuser as long as she can't get knocked up? What about the risk of sexual transmitted infections? Or is it OK for a severely learning disabled woman already to lose her mind to syphilis?

If she were my child, I'd do everything I could to protect her from abuse (and I don't mean removing temptation by lopping her boobs off). I'd fill my house full of surveillance equipment if I had to so I could spy on her "caregivers".

It's not often I agree with the opinion columns by Dr Tom Shakespeare, but his article on Ashley is great. While most of the world is trying to convince midgety crips that we should be taller so we can reach the top shelf in the supermarket ourselves (back to my old peeve about the feta cheese) rather than making the world adapt to us, Ashley's parents want one of us shortarses. I'm kinda flattered in a way that according to non-disableds that it's now OK to be short - that short is the new tall.

"Furthermore, given Ashley’s mental age a nine and a half year old body is more appropriate and more dignified than a fully grown female body."

It all comes down to aesthetics. Disabled kids are cute, disabled adults are gross.

"Ashley is a beautiful girl whose body is developing normally with no external deformities."

Well, I'm about to drag my deformed, unsightly, disabled adult self into the bath. Night kids.

One of life's great mysteries has been solved.

Whenever I tell people how low the IQ of the whole town of Clacton On Sea is, no-one believes me. They don't think it's possible for a whole town to be so thick, and for all the residents of the town to completely live up to the Essex stereotype.

How a whole town came to have such a collectively low IQ has been something that's puzzled me. I'm afraid to drink the water in case it's contagious.

But, now I know.

Me and the cat went to stay with the parents over Christmas. As usual I ate too much, watched lots of crap TV and had to listen to lots of old fogey music (my Mum bought my Dad an iPod for Christmas and guess who got the task of loading music onto it?).

I came home on the 28th because I had tickets to see Much Ado About Nothing in London that night. Having never seen nor read the play before, on the 27th I wanted to go shopping to get a copy of the text to familiarise myself.

"Mum, where's there a bookshop in town?" I asked. I've never lived in Clacton. My parents moved there after I'd moved down to London, so I don't know the town that well.

"I don't think there are any."

And she was right.

Suddenly all made sense. How can Clacton residents educate themselves in a town where no-one is able to access books?

My mother had bought me some new underwear, and one pair of knickers has "sweet enough to eat" written on the crotch. Like anyone would be, I was disturbed by receiving such a gift from a parent. Her defence was "I never really read it," which at first I didn't believe. But now with the knowledge that Clactonians are denied literature, I found myself believing her.

On the night of the 27th, my parents and I played some Scrabble. The first 4 games I won with ease. The fifth and final game was very close between me and Mother, right up until the end. But, I refused to lose at a word game to someone who lives in a town without books: I had a reputation to uphold.

During the course of the games, words I came out with included "sex", "horny" and "groin" which are perhaps words which should be avoided in front of the 'rents. But, in my defence I got "sex" on a double word score and my "groin" landed on a triple word score. I wish that was somehow a metaphor.

So, I returned to London and went to the theatre as planned. The fact that I spent the duration of the performance pondering how pretty Tamsin Greig is rather than paying attention to the plot is something I hold Clacton entirely responsible for: If Clacton had books, my IQ wouldn't have dropped several points over Christmas.

Happy New Year everyone.

There was a small article in yesterday's The London Paper about Saw III and how since it's release in the UK, ambulances have been called to three different cinemas to treat a total of 5 people (4 women, 1 man) who've fainted during torture scenes in the film.

Obviously the paper brands the movie ridiculously scary, but, actually, a closer read reveals something else. The cinemas in which people have fainted are in Stevenage, Cambridge and Peterborough - leading me to conclude that there's nothing wrong with the film; East Anglians are just wimps.

Being of East Anglian descent myself, when I go see it I suppose I'd better wear a crash helmet in case I fall off my chair. I did after all faint at Watership Down aged 5.

Happy Halloween!

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

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

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

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

There was no mirror.

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

Just like a vampire.

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

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

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

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

Damn.

Edit: This made me laugh.

This post may contain cheese.

In the very early hours of yesterday morning, I received the most fabulously entitled spam Email.

The subject line was "cheddar attached."

I checked and double checked. The Email came with no free cheese. How fraudulent! The only attachment was a jpeg trying to get me to buy Viagra.

I'm really disappointed. I like the idea of cheese by Email.

Doris Delarosa, if you're reading this: I want the cheddar you promised me.

This made me laugh very loudly, so I had to share it.

Did you know that when Superglue starts to bond pyjama bottoms to skin that it burns?

The giant and very painful blister on my right knee is evidence of this fact.

In a way, I'm quite glad about the "Oh my god! My knee is on fire!" feeling, followed by an urgent need to detrouser. Because it did prevent me and my pink jammy bottoms with teddy bears on them from becoming permanently as one.

You would think that they'd make an adhesive as powerful as Superglue less runny so it doesn't drip everywhere, wouldn't you?

Well, my last 2 posts have been about toilets. I might as well continue vaguely along the theme...

Actually, I should probably elaborate on my last post. This time, fortunately, the thousands of people in Trafalgar Sqaure were spared the sight of me weeing when the disabled toilet lock failed. Instead, I had the pleasure of opening the door on someone else. My manners are far better than the Brixton Academy employee who flung the door open on me, and I slammed the door shut immediately. In fact, after I'd done what I needed to and tried to leave, I couldn't get the disabled toilet door open. Some event planner had the bright idea of sticking the disabled portaloo with an outward opening door right in the middle of Trafalgar Sqaure. In the middle of a crowd of thousands.

Anyway...

My BettyCat has been ill recently. The poor little thing has had a poorly bladder. And what do cats do when they're not feeling too good in that area? Yup. Stop using their litter tray and just go wherever they happen to be.

My current disorganisation is all the cat's fault. I had to throw my To Do List whiteboard in the bin after she weed up it. "The dog ate my homework" may not wash as an excuse, but "the cat peed on my to do list" is entirely valid reasoning for not having accomplished all that I should.

By far the most frustrating of her makeshift litter spots was the curtain by the back door. Because it meant I had to take it down to wash it. And I'm 4'10". In a way I was glad the vet kept Betty in overnight that night, because her pointing and laughing at me (don't think she wouldn't...) while I struggled to extract the curtain rail from the (fortunately very low) ceiling would've been more than I could bear.

And don't ask why I didn't just take the curtain off the rail rather than taking the whole rail down. I was poor when I moved in here (nothing's changed in the last 18 months), and I found a curtain rail in Ikea costing the grand sum of £1. Cheapness comes at a price, and, in this case, the price is a design making it impossible to take the curtain off the rail without taking the rail down.

Prescription painkillers and a step designed to facilitate small children's access to a grown up toilet made it possible to eventually get the curtain down. But, of course, gravity was working in my favour too. Trying to get the curtain back up? Yup, gravity becomes more of a foe than a friend.

So, the curtain is still draped over the kitchen radiator, where it was spread to dry. Fortunately the glass on the window in the door is frosted, so passers by can't see me running around in my pyjamas (OK, like I can run, but, you know what I mean), but, the frosting doesn't stop the street lights from flooding my room with brightness throughout the night.

I find myself remembering a line from a Barenaked Ladies song... "who needs sleep?" and blogging at 3:15 in the morning.

As for the cat? The vet gave her anti-inflammatory drops, and she's peed nowhere but her litter tray since she got home. And annoyingly the little ball of trouble can sleep anywhere, anytime.

What is it with Scissor Sisters concerts and disabled toilet doors that won't lock?

Edited to add: This was what happened last time...

I've just finally gotten around to watching F*** Off I'm Fat.

Very near the start of the documentary, there's some footage of Ricky Grover doing some stand-up, and joking about being fat. I gigged with him once a while ago, and some skinny student started heckling him, and then disappeared for a piss.

So, Ricky got down off the stage, walked over to this kid's seat, and took the coat off the back of it. One of the issues explored in the documentary is how hard it is to buy clothes if you're fat. Needless to say, Ricky expected the coat to not fit, and look comical.

The kid came back in the room, and Ricky put on the coat. It fitted perfectly. Nothing could've been funnier as no-one in the room saw that coming.

The thing I found most interesting about the documentary was the parallels you can draw between fighting for fat rights, and fighting for disability rights. For instance, an issue that came up was the problem that restaurants try to cram as many seats into as small a space as possible. Which of course leaves little room for anyone oversized, whether that is because they are fat, or because they have a set of wheels that makes them take up more space than the interior designers ideal diner.

In fact, as an example of a restaurant that doesn't cater for fat people, they showed a shot of the Chinese/Thai/Vegetarian restaurant on Golders Green Road. A restaurant which I've felt slightly confused by in the past. This place has a really evil step to get in, another step down to the toilets, yet, once you've tackled those 2 steps, there's an "accessible" toilet. Someone didn't quite think that one through, did they?

Design issues were the focus of the documentary, and Ricky's appeal for inclusive design is something that most crips would be familiar with.

As part of the documentary, Ricky launched the UK's first "big loo." It featured a toilet tested to take the weight of someone up to a ton, and had a much larger than average seat, which everyone who used (even the skinnies) commented was far more comfortable than your bog standard (pardon the punning) loo seat.

Ricky appealed for more "big loos" around the UK, and summed up that segment of the show with the following quote:

Instead of segregating fat people, and having one big loo for them; why not make them all big loos, then you segregate no-one.

Slight flaw in that argument: Ricky had designed the "big loo" with 2 steps to get in, and a further step to mount the throne.

I'm feeling segregated by the "big loo" already...

Yet more hospital appointments continue to take up vast amounts of time in The World of Lisy Babe.

While the staff at the Royal Throat, Nose and Ear hospital don't claim to have time travelling skills, nor do they expect me to demonstrate some, they still know how to confuse me.

I've had problems with my sinuses for most of my life. But in the past year they've actually become quite an impairment as I'm spending around 2 days a fortnight stuck in bed with the ability to do nothing except swallow more painkillers. Yesterday I finally got the chance to see an ENT specialist about this.

Upon arriving at the hospital, I was asked if I'd used Patient Transport Services to get there.

"No, I pushed here." I thought this was an obvious answer. If I'd said "I walked here," he'd have looked at me like I was A Mental (because apparently wheelchair users aren't allowed to use common parlance).

"Yes, but did you use hospital transport?"

I had no idea that patient transport vehicles were now fitted with treadmill type things so it would be possible for me to simultaneously push all the way there and catch a ride in an ambulance.

I do love the belief held by most members of NHS staff that it's not possible for crips to make their own way to hospital. Obviously, for some it's true. But when I had an endoscopy in March they sent an ambulance to pick me up (without even consulting me to find out if I needed or wanted one). I live a 10 minute walk/push/whatever from the hospital. There is no way in the world I'm going to be up and ready to leave the house an extra 2 hours before I actually need to leave just because someones made an assumption about my abilities. Thank you very much, I'll spend those 2 hours catching extra kip. And to add insult to insult, the patient transport people kept calling me "Mrs Lisa Egan." Now that I seriously considered making a complaint about. Mrs indeed.

Anyway, after that rather odd exchange with the receptionist, they sent me for a hearing test. I'd been complaining of sinus pain, not hearing loss. But the NHS does like to waste it's limited budget (like by employing people who can read the future) so I dutifully headed towards the hearing test dept and played along by pushing a button every time I heard a beep.

And, why? "You've had hearing problems in the past." Said a nurse who'd clearly only skim read my notes. Had he bothered to read properly he'd have seen that, actually, no. There's nothing wrong with my hearing. I have Auditory Processing Disorder. Telling me I have hearing problems is like telling a dyslexic that they're visually impaired. Idiot.

Fortunately the doctor I finally saw had a slightly higher IQ than most of the staff at the hospital. Though he did say "I see from your notes that you have Osteogenesis Imperfecta. Is that why you use a wheelchair?"

I was tempted to reply "No, my sinus pain is just so bad it's fucked up my knees." (But it still doesn't beat an anaesthetist asking Loudgirl "if she'd always had dwarfism?")

After sticking several things up my nose he informed me that I have Rhinosinusitis to add to my ever expanding list of diagnoses. This apparently does not mean that my sinuses have been invaded by Rhinos (though it often feels like I have a wee one growing in there and trying to burst out. I keep waiting for my face to explode in a similar fashion to John Hurt's stomach). Nor does it mean I have sinusitis of rhino-like proportions (though, again, feels like it). I think it simply means that whoever hybridised "rhinitis" and "sinusitis" got bored of the letter "I" and decided to throw in an "O" for some slightly variable vowel sounds. It's basically a fancy and mammalian sounding word for "chronic sinus inflammation." Which I could've told him I had on my way into the clinic.

Before departing from the hospital, I was sent to pick up a list of things to squirt up my nose to try and ease my suffering, and to have a blood test to see if there were any obvious causes for my sinuses to be so enraged.

Upon arrival at the blood test room, the phlebotomist asked me "Are you a difficult one?" As I sat there with my rear wheels wedged in the door frame I replied:

"Well, I can't even fit through your door for starters." Despite the popularity of the medical model of disability in certain quarters, apparently we wheelies don't need to be able to make our way around hospitals.

Anyway, I must go. The baby rhino in my sinuses is trying to make another break for it I think.

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

Me: I'm a vegetarian.

Them: Do you eat fish?

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

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

Just because the appointment bookers in UCH's Maxillo Facial Unit can travel 3 days forward in time to know that I was going to fail to attend an appointment, they seem to think I have the power of time travel too.

Though, I wasn't planning on missing the appointment. But, who knows, maybe had the sound of the postman at 8am on June 19th (delivering a letter telling me I'd failed to attend an appointment 3 hours into the future) not roused me enough to get out of bed, I would have missed the appointment. So, it's possible that their on-staff mystics are right.

I was a little perplexed to receive a letter telling me that on the day of my operation I had to be on ward T14 at 7:30am. Now, anyone that knows me knows that asking me to be somewhere at 7:30am is asking a lot. Hell, most days I'm not even out of my pyjamas by 7:30pm. But the time they expected me to be there wasn't the aspect of the letter that left me befuddled.

What was confusing was the paragraph following the time they expected me to be there. The letter asked me "to call the ward between 9am and 5pm on the day of arrival to check there is a bed available for you."

So, I'm supposed to go an hour an and a half forward in time to call the ward to check that an emergency admission hasn't been dumped in my bed, before showing up?

I wish while I was in there, they'd taught me how to do that. Time travel would be fun. I'd never have to worry about oversleeping again. My alarm clock goes off, I want to roll over and go back to sleep for a few more hours? No problem. Just go back 2 or three hours and get that bonus kip. Lather, rinse and repeat as needed.

I'm incredibly jealous of that girl from Out of this World. Always have been. I wish my Dad was an alien (though, sometimes I think he might be. He's not allowed to eat grapefruit because it interacts negatively with one of the medications he's on. Part of his birthday present from me this year was some grapefruit shower gel. He asked my mother if he would be OK using it. I now think my Dad has a policy of washing from the inside) and I'd inherited from him the power to freeze time. Just how cool would that be? You'd never need to run late again! I think all punctually challenged people like me should be awarded that gift.

Actually, I think I should have the power to freeze time awarded to me as a reasonable adjustment under the DDA. It takes me longer to get anywhere in London than it takes non-disabled people (or disabled people whose impairment doesn't affect their ability to use stairs/escalators) because I can't get on the tube. This means that to get somewhere at the same time as non-crips, I have to get up earlier. Meaning I'm deprived of sleep. If I could freeze time with a clap of the hands, all would be equal in this animal farm we call London.

On the subject of being deprived of sleep, of course on that morning I had to be at UCH, I didn't bother to go to bed the night before. I was being given a general anaesthetic, it's not like I didn't have an opportunity to sleep during that day.

Or so I thought.

Many people wake up from a general rather dopey and spend the rest of the day sleeping, but, I've always woken up and immediately taken on behaviour resembling that of the Energiser Bunny. This was my first general since the age of 9, and I know the effects are often different on adults than they are on children. I was fully planning on sleeping like my mother does after an operation.

My mother is the woman who had her only child, by cesarean, under general anaesthetic. Instead of waking up and being overjoyed by the sight of her newborn bouncing baby girl, and being so excited by parenthood that she just couldn't get back to sleep; she took one look at me, said "Oh," rolled over and went back to the world of dreams. What a welcome into this world I got. "Oh." I suppose at least in her bleary state she didn't start calling me "Peter" which was going to be my name had I had a winky.

So, fully expecting to have turned into my mother, I was planning on catching up on some kip. I was so sure I'd be out for the count that I didn't even bother to pay the exorbitant fee to have the TV by my bed turned on.

Instead of course I woke up insanely hyper, with a major case of verbal diarrhoea (quite impressive given how swollen my mouth was having just had a bone saw in it). Much to the annoyance of the nurse overseeing the recovery room. Eventually she told me to lay down and shut up. You can see why with a bedside manner like that she opted to work with patients who are mostly unconscious.

The closest I came that day to proper rest was when I decided to change from blood stained hospital gown into my own pyjamas. Despite being rather squeamish, I was OK with the sight of dried blood on my surgical attire. I was even fine with the Lisa-juice covered blanket I woke up wrapped in. But, still, nighties aren't very me, I wanted my proper jammie bottoms on, so I decided to go in the toilet and get changed. Drip and all.

Changing from something with sleeves, into something else with sleeves, while you've got a drip in your hand is rather challenging. Still, I was confident I could manage it without having to ask a nurse to help me with all the tubes. As Julia Roberts once said "Big mistake. Big. Huge." Taking the drip down off it's stand to get it through various sleeves meant that my blood started flowing up the drip tube where gravity was no longer pushing the saline in the right direction. One notice of "Ooo, my blood's flowing in a direction it's not supposed to," had me laying on the floor, attempting to preserve what little consciousness I had left.

Actually, I wish I could go back in time and rethink that decision. How embarrassing.

Carry On... Hospital Managers

Or, why I ♥ the NHS.

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

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

Honest. I couldn't make this stuff up.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Are they bald?"

"No."

"Do they have short hair?"

"Yes."

"Are they blonde?"

"No."

"Any piercings?"

"Yes."

"I think it's Gilly."

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