Twelve Days of Christmas: 4 Days PC

As the decorations start to come down in the Bogsy household, it occurs to me that this festive season I haven’t been dressed up as Santa. Just to be clear, that isn’t an annual event for me, but every now and then I like to slip into  a Mr or, more memorably perhaps, a Mrs Claus outfit to delight and scare friends, family and colleagues in equal measure.

The whole business started way back in Boots the Chemists on the high street of Bridgwater, Somerset. I’d been working there as a Saturday shop assistant, primarily in the cookware section, pretending I knew  how to assemble a food processor, or what to use a palette knife for. Clearly I had made quite an impression, or perhaps it was me being the only bloke around, that led them to ask me to dress up as Father Christmas that year. My mission, should I accept it, was to wander around the store looking jolly and offering small children chocolates from my tin. These days I would probably have been arrested.

I cringe now to think of that lanky, spotty teenager, with the cheap Santa gown stuffed with a cushion to try to achieve the required level of portliness. What an unconvincing sight I must have been.

I wonder if this slightly traumatic experience led me, about thirty years later, to go for the female version, although what possessed me to bring her out at a works Christmas party I’m not sure. I have to say I scrubbed up pretty well in my short red, fur-trimmed sleeveless number, with matching red heels, and long blonde wig. Contrary to popular myth, I did not travel like that to work. I discreetly hid myself in a toilet to get changed. I had to get a little assistance from a little assistant, Julie, who was the only one in on the surprise. She nearly collapsed with laughter when I opened the loo door and beckoned her in to help me. I think she’d been expecting a slightly more homely, cuddly Mrs Claus, rather than the vision before her, which looked like it had stepped straight out of a strip club. She must have felt suddenly quite normal in her green elf suit, as she helped me along the corridor to the party. Thank goodness there were no students around – the sight of the two of us could have made them question their mental health.

Photographic evidence does exist and may well prevent any further promotions. It tends to be used as a kind of initiation for new staff. Normally within their first week, they get to see the legendary photos. The strong ones stay on, disturbed but better prepared for what may lay ahead. Perhaps next year I need to test that resolve.

Twelve Days of Christmas: 3 Days PC

I am a little late publishing this post, for which my excuse  is a combination of things – braving the crowds to go shoe shopping, a trip to the cinema and being determined to finish my latest audio book, which was Small Great Things by Jodi Picoult.

The novel is no easy read – full of quite detailed examples of hatred, racism and discrimination. Amongst all that uncomfortable, disturbing stuff there are a few welcome moments of humour. My favourite was when one of the main characters, a white female lawyer, is talking about a meeting she has to attend at one of the state prisons to try to get them to allow her entry without the indignation of having to remove her under-wire bra which keeps setting off the metal detector on the way in. Brilliantly, she refers to this meeting as the ‘itty-bitty titty committee’.

I wonder if I can find a legitimate reason to use this phrase at work. Perhaps if there is a discussion about our policy on breast-feeding at work then I might get the chance. Alternatively, I might have to come up with some of my own.

If we’re asked to participate in a scheme to make the city centre more attractive, we might need an itty-bitty pretty city committee.

Or, if we want to organise a humorous poetry competition, then the judging panel could be the itty-bitty witty ditty committee.

If one of the local museums is putting on an exhibition of famous cinema cars, we might want to set up an itty-bitty chitty-chitty committee.

And if our gardeners complain about stray cats defecating on their beautiful borders, we might have to instigate an itty-bitty shitty kitty committee.

As you can tell, I was deeply moved by the book. No, actually it was very good, though quite distressing to read in parts. Likewise ‘I Daniel Blake’ which was the film we saw. Not one for a bit of festive cheer, but very worthwhile. I admire these writers who set out to hold up a mirror which reflects a picture most of us choose to ignore or not recognise. Both the book and the film did a good job of reminding me how bloody hard some peoples’ lives are and how lucky I am to have the problem of shoe shopping .

Twelve Days of Christmas: 2 days PC

It’s been a strange year and, for many of us, a sad one with the loss of what seems like so many of our great entertainers and musical artists. The news of George Michael’s early death seemed to me to be a very sad end for someone who offered so much.

I was no big fan of his, but like Bowie and Prince, he formed part of my formative years, creating songs that will stay with me until I go the same way.

I vividly remember my excitement one Christmas in the early 80s, unwrapping the Fantastic album that Santa had left me. It was a cheese-fest of pure pop, but I loved it. Only this summer, on a walking holiday in Bulgaria, I was delighted to entertain/frighten the other walkers with a rather drunken rendition of ‘Wham Rap’.  The Brits abroad, eh? I even managed to record it as part of an audio diary mash-up so my fellow walkers can enjoy the experience over and over, the lucky things.

My second abiding memory prompted by this week’s sad news was of me and a friend, dancing in a barn somewhere in deepest, darkest Somerset – I don’t remember the exact location – at a young Farmer’s disco. Fuelled by scrumpy, we were no doubt hopeful that our hot moves to ‘Wake me up before you go-go’ would be so uncannily like George and Andrew that we would have young farmers’ daughters flocking. I don’t remember much else, which clearly signifies that our ‘young guns’ went unfired that night.

I think, if I’m honest, the loss of these legends is a reminder of our own mortality – people we grew up with moving on and we know we won’t be so far behind them.  Best make the most of it then.

Twelve Days of Christmas: Boxing Day

You may not know that Boxing Day is so called because it’s the day in the year when you have to work out what the hell you are going to do with all the boxes left over from the day before. In our house, this now extends to the dinner as well as the gifts, since we have become very lazy and prefer the kind of ready-meal dinner option. The tricky part is not how to cook the dinner, as this is clearly printed on the labels it’s how to heat it up in the right order so that everything is ready to eat at the same time.

Actually, I take that back. The really tricky part, at least for a certain Mrs B, is reading the order confirmation correctly. We had dragged ourselves out of bed last Friday (remember, I was full of cold and deserving much sympathy) to go and collect our food from the local M&S at the allotted time of 8.30-9am. Feeling ever so slightly smug at having got ourselves there nice and early, beating the crowds, we presented ourselves at the desk. Rather than a cheery ‘ho ho ho’ from the shop assistant, we were told ‘computer says no, no, no’. Imagine how we laughed when we were told that our allocated pick up slot was 8.30-9pm.

So, when you get to the stage where even a ready-meal Christmas dinner is a bit too hard to cope with, what is next? Time for the kids to take over perhaps? Or how old do you need to be to qualify for meals on wheels?

Twelve Days of Christmas: Christmas Day

Here's a Christmas-themed story I wrote a few years back. It was for a creative writing competition with the theme of disability. I don't know much about autism, but wanted to have a go at putting the condition at the centre of my story. I shared it with a friend who has an autistic son and was reassured by her response. It also makes a nice change for me to write about a disability other than sight loss. I hope you like it.

 

My Jack is Joseph

 

I must have stood for a few seconds outside the school hall, gripping the cold brass door handle and taking deep breaths. For that brief time I was frozen by the fear of what was to come and the certainty that it would all be my fault. Caught in the headlights of public humiliation, I didn’t know whether to enter the hall or turn on my heels and run. Thankfully, one of the other mums came into the lobby and jolted me back into action with a cheery “Morning Mrs Cartwright, here we go again, eh? I hear your Jack’s got a part this year’.

 

I didn’t have the foggiest whose mum she was, but as usual, the voice was full of familiarity and tinged with sympathy. She, of course, knew my name – everyone seemed to know Mrs Cartwright, the one with the boy in Mrs Brent’s class, the strange lad who keeps colouring in the mortar between bricks, the one who won’t eat his lunch unless there are exactly six knives, six forks and six spoons on the table, the boy who, when the Head tried to help him with his shoelaces, told him to “Fuck off and die”.

 

I forced my usual tired smile and said “Yes, my Jack is Joseph”, before taking one more deep breath and pulling open the wide wooden door. I quickly found a seat near the front which, to my amazement, the school had remembered to reserve for me. I put this down to an act of self-preservation more than empathetic forethought. After all, if Jack started kicking off they sure as hell didn’t want me stuck in the back row. But it was welcome all the same. It was a sign that they were finally learning to cope with me and Jack. There’d been so many occasions where they had just put him down as ‘too difficult’ to include, ‘too disruptive’ for the other children. It was ‘easier all round’ if he was kept out of most activities – ‘for his own benefit’ they said.

 

Which is why I had no doubt that the whispered chatter that morning behind me was focused on my Jack, and what on earth the school was thinking of, giving him a major part in the nativity. They’d even been asked not to take photographs of their little angels this year. “Yes” I’d said to the Head, “I know it won’t be popular with the other parents, but don’t you think they’d be even more hacked off if Joseph spent the whole of the nativity imitating a bloody shutter noise.” At which point I remember looking into his tight, weary face and seeing a look of resignation. This was the look that I’d grown accustomed to seeking in other people, especially people in authority. Ever since Jack had been given his Autism diagnosis, I’d spent most of my life wearing people down so that they run out of reasons to say no. So when Mrs Brent had told me that Jack would make a ‘super sheep’ yet again this year I wasted no time in meeting the Head to begin the attrition process. “Why is he in a mainstream school, Mr Wilson?” I demanded to the pale-faced Head as he stroked his forehead, desperately trying to get his brain to think of a way of getting rid of me. Before he could find one I continued, “Not so he can be a sodding sheep every year, Mr Wilson. Let’s face it; his exam results aren’t going to be up to much, are they? So what else can he achieve, Mr Wilson, if he’s always in the background, kept out of the way?” Having fired a couple of my best shots, I’d kept the ‘legal obligations’ argument loaded in the barrel. He was already wounded and by the look on his face I wouldn’t need to finish him off – a submission was on the way.

 

In the hall, Mr Wilson sat at the piano, flicking nervously through the music and making sure he did not catch my eye. I’d seen from previous years that he found this type of event awkward, so my Jack’s starring role would be doing nothing to calm his nerves. When he rose to welcome us all his voice was dry and stuttering. “I do hope you all enjoy it,” he said, letting himself look at me for the first time. ‘So do I pal’ I thought and shot him a smile that said ‘thank you’.

 

As the music started, Jack, along with a young-looking Mary and a rather wobbly donkey, marched onto the stage. I held my breath as Jack turned to see the crowded room, full of strange, gawping faces, and I wondered if it would just be too much for him. His eyes danced across the parents until they met mine and then his face relaxed and a broad grin spread across it. Then he did something which I will never forget – it only took a second or two, but I’ve cherished it ever since, like a tiny gemstone. Visibly proud of himself in his costume of old green curtains and tea-towel headgear, he stopped a moment, his bright, hazel eyes fixed on mine and raised a thumb to me. That simple gesture was, to me, a rare moment, a sign that we were in the same place that he knew I was there for him, and that he wanted to reassure me that he was alright.

 

I keep that little gemstone carefully wrapped and I regularly check that it’s still there. Whenever times are dark or desperate I pull it out again, dust it off and admire its brilliant light. There have been many dark times, when I wondered if we were in the same world, wondered if we would ever have that connection taken for granted by most mums and their kids. Like the time when, without thinking, I told Jack to ‘get his skates on’ or we’d be late for school. He spent the rest of the morning stretched out on the hall floor, screaming for skates which I had binned months ago. I spent the morning in the porch, hat and gloves on, ready to go. I sat, slumped against the porch door, my face against the cold, frosted glass and my tears ran down it like rain on a window. I felt like this was the rest of my life captured in that one place. To one side, through opaque glass, a boy I loved but couldn’t get to because his glass was just so bloody opaque it wouldn’t let me see the true Jack. On the other, a door to the outside world. Between Jack’s sobs I could hear the sound of wind blowing through trees, children playing, people getting on with their normal lives, while I sat, trapped in a small place with doors either side but no obvious way out.

 

At the end of the play, which went broadly as planned, I was bursting with pride and probably the first to start clapping. I was also the first to stop, as I saw Jack’s familiar distressed frown at the noise. I put my hands over my ears and he followed suit.  On the short walk home I held his little hand so tightly he must have thought he was in trouble. “You were brilliant!” I said to him. “Yes,” he said thoughtfully. “But I want to be a sheep next time Mum.”

 

 

Twelve Days of Christmas: 1 Day BC

Christmas is, after all, a time for giving. And I had given myself a lovely new wireless speaker, which now takes pride of place on the bookshelf in our lounge.

I was busy showing it off to Alex and her friend Rachel, who had stayed over following the party. Running through various songs, cranking up the volume to demonstrate the lovely, smooth bass, and gorgeous mid-tones.

Yes, they were suitably impressed. Until, that is, Alex suddenly asks “Where’s the nativity?”

“The what?” I respond, searching through a playlist to find another song that will adequately demonstrate the prowess of my new gadget.

“The nativity. It’s normally on the shelf, where you’ve put the speaker.”

This was a correct observation, but until then I had forgotten all about the nativity, which I guessed was still packed away somewhere upstairs in the loft. Although I’m not a religious person by any means, I did feel a slight pang of guilt. Poor baby Jesus, Joseph and Mary, and the sheep and wise men all packed away up there in the cold, damp loft, all dark and alone.  How could I be so thoughtless? So I turn up the volume a bit. There, I think, they can hear it too now.

12 Days of Christmas: 2 Days BC

Well, it turns out that the answer to the question “Who names these storms?” is “We do”. Apparently the Met Office names our storms, but based on recommendations from the public.  And as well as Barbara, we can look forward to storms this winter called Doris, Fleur and Penelope.  I suppose we should be grateful that there isn’t one called Windy McWindbottom, or something similar.

Anyway, Barbara came a knockin’ last night but didn’t delay Alex’s arrival, or a whole bunch of friends and colleagues who joined us for a few drinks. The teenagers were, of course, loud and messy, generously leaving their mark on the dining room carpet, the little cherubs. Apparently three of the girls managed to go to the loo together. Nothing unusual you might think. But in the toilet under the stairs? You can literally sit on the lav and brush your teeth in there. I’m not sure whether to be appalled or impressed.

It’s given me an idea for a new party game for Christmas Day. Might have to do it before lunch, though, especially with all those sprouts. “Right Grandma,jump up onto the cistern. We’re getting the dogs in now”.

12 Days of Christmas: 3 days BC

I really ought to have been in work today, but instead have decided that my festive holidays start right here, right now. This last minute change of plan was brought about by about three weeks of dodging the winter lurgy which ended yesterday. Just as I was looking ahead to a bug-free Christmas Day, congratulating myself on my super-human powers of immunity and resilience,  the evil snot-monster made its way up my trouser leg,, under my shirt and up into my nostrils. Here, it’s found a nice spot to stay for a while, unpacked its deck-chair, put down a towel and set about its business,

Of course, I should not be surprised. It was just my turn to win the annual game of pass the germ-parcel. When the music stopped it was me holding the mucus. How delighted my wife is that I’ve brought it home to share with the family. Well, it’s Christmas, and that’s all about sharing isn’t it?

So, I find myself with an extra day to wallow around feeling sorry for myself. It means I have a little extra time to potter. I clean out the kitchen cupboard that has been developing teenager tendencies, all messy, disorganised and starting to smell. I wrap a few presents, apologising under my breath to the intended recipients for what I know is my shockingly bad technique. I do washing, empty bins, tidy away clothes and so on. All the while I have one ear on the radio. In particular, I’m listening for news of the progress of this season’s second named storm, Barbara. Really? Who thinks up these names? I’m struggling to think of a less stormy name than Barbara. Beatrix maybe. Anyway, Babs is on her way from the west, while my daughter, Alex, is due to fly home from Paris tomorrow evening.

I know I shouldn’t but when you become a parent your DNA gets altered, and the worry gene is activated. That little critter is now pulsating and generating a quiet beep at the back of my head. Of course, I know this is a reaction of my chimp brain. My rational human brain is reassuring me that they won’t let the plane take off if the weather is so bad, or that statistically flying is still one of the safest ways to travel. Beep, beep.

There’s a good chance we’ll see a whole bunch of Alex’s friends before she arrives home. We’ve organised a festive drinks do for tomorrow night – a further opportunity for me to share my special gift this Christmas. We’ve also allowed our 15-year old son, Dominic, to invite a few friends. The extra time I had today with Dom gave us time for a helpful chat about what ‘a few’ means. In my head it is 4 or 5. His interpretation was several more. Beep, beep, beep.

 

So I say 'thank you for the music'

Having managed to get myself out of bed for a 9.15 spinning class on Easter Sunday…(pause for congratulatory applause)…I aim to harness the post-fitness class energy by engaging in my more usual activity, plonked on my arse in front of a computer.

For anyone who hasn’t done a spinning class, I would say it’s a lot like aquarobics, only instead of exercising in a swimming pool you burn calories in a pool of your own sweat. The first time I tried it I was horrified to find that other members of the group were chatting amongst themselves, catching up on the week’s gossip, whilst I was sucking in air and wondering if my life assurance was up to date.

You’ll be relieved to know that Paddy is kept at a safe distance while this is going on. At first he would whine a bit to be close to me. Then, I think when he saw the state I was in, he realised that his knowledge of CPR is not what it could be and he was happy to keep his distance. Either that or he found the whole thing very embarrassing and now tries to pretend he’s not with me.

Fortunately I have found it does get a little easier with practice, and of course, one does develop a few rules to help maintain some semblance of dignity. For example, you make sure the resistance is totally off before you start – if it feels way too easy then that is good, because it’s about to get a whole lot tougher. Then if, because of the loud music playing, you don’t quite hear the instructor when she yells ‘Up one turn’, always interpret it as ‘Down one turn’ or at worst ‘Up a quarter turn’. Believe me, accuracy in following instructions is the last thing you want. Finally, when your eyeballs are sweating and your spinning class actually does start to spin, be prepared to use sleight of hand – the instructor won’t know that you’re just moving your hand and not the resistance wheel.

It’s amazing how much difference the music makes. Without it I think I’d probably last about 5 minutes before just sitting and crying. It does somehow connect some motivational neurons together in a way which makes the whole thing almost pleasant. OK, I exaggerate a little.

 

 

A VI Merry Christmas

I have posted before about the truth behind some of our best loved Christmas customs (see http://www.blindmansblogsey.blogspot.co.uk/2008/08/real-meaning-of-christmas.html ) and as we approach this special time of year once again, my research has revealed some almost interesting facts about the role that blind people have played in shaping many of our festive customs over the years.

For example, did you know that legend has it that Santa first got the idea to put sleigh bells on his reindeer after receiving a request from a grumpy old blind bloke in Croydon?  Arthur Dodds had requested the auditory addition, claiming he was frightened that “one of the fat fuckers will run me over one of these years”. Fortunately, the elves translated the request for Santa as a plea from a nice old man who wanted to enjoy the full festive spectacle. However, the tradition was almost ended some years later when Santa was busy delivering presents in Australia. Unfortunately, Santa had parked the sleigh near a day/night VI cricket match. Innocently grazing on the pitch, Rudolph’s bells were mistaken for a ball and he was dispatched to the boundary with a lovely cover drive. On the plus side, his injured nose, which took the brunt of the shot, became his trademark.

And it was a ‘Scottish blind man who started the tradition of leaving out a carrot and a whisky on Christmas Eve. He had been at the whisky all night and left his last night-cap by the fireplace. A little worse for the drink, he later misjudged where he had left his glass and ended up toasting his fingers in the fire. As for the carrot, he had picked one up in the supermarket and brought it home to ask friends and family what it was. Of course, nobody knew, so he’d decided it made quite a nice poker.

You might also be surprised to hear that Christmas fairy lights were also inspired by someone thinking about their blind loved one, or so the story goes. Apparently, the young  Swedish girl, Anja, was desperate to keep her blind father away from the presents under the tree, as he had a tendency to rummage around trying to guess what was wrapped up for him. So his ingenious daughter rigged up a series of live electrical charges all around the tree to keep him away. Neighbours commented on the lovely coloured sparks they made when the inquisitive Dad went pressie-hunting and Anja got the idea to develop a less sadistic version for the mass market.

Did you know that explosive Christmas crackers as we know them were developed that way especially for blind people? Originally they were small gifts shared at the dinner table, until an ingenious French man decided a more sensory experience was needed for his blind wife. Early prototypes were variable. Having blown up his shed, poor Jacques would have held his hands up in defeat, had he not already blown them off. However, he persevered and eventually his design was passed safe for use around the world.

Finally, the influence of the VI world extends through to some of our favourite New Year customs. The great Scottish tradition of first footing – being the first person to cross the threshold of your neighbour’s house – was started by a blind man in Glasgow in the 13^th century. He’d been at his local tavern for a few celebratory ales and had had become a little confused on his return home, ending up at the wrong house, whereupon he was dragged inside for another drink before being sent on his way. Several houses later he eventually made it home and the next year he was careful to make the same mistake. His canny Scots neighbours soon caught on and the tradition took off.

So a VI Merry Christmas to you all!

 

Notes on not falling over

This whole trip could be summarised as my personal battle with gravity, a force of nature which, over the four-day trek, I grew to loathe with a passion. The trek would take my group of thirty walkers on a well-used but none-the-less challenging route known as ‘The 3 Peaks’, taking in each of the three highest mountains in Wales, England and Scotland (Snowdon, Scafell Pike and Ben Nevis respectively).

Things had started well. Despite being weighed down by 3 litres of water, enough snacks to feed a small town and a large bag of self-doubt, I had overcome its relentless pull in order to haul myself and my provisions to Snowdon’s peak, I guess it was inevitable that the big G would take its revenge on the way down. It did at least require the assistance of a fellow G – the dreaded mountain gulley – to bring me down. I was as keen as the next man to descend quickly, but not that quickly. Deep in conversation with a fellow trekker, my left foot was soon deep into a gulley, where it was clearly planning to rest up for a little while. Fortunately for me, at least half of the group following behind me were partially-sighted and would not have seen the HD version of my fall. They may well have heard the hard thwack of my knee hitting the rock, followed by the feint thud of my pride doing the same. But my overwhelming sense was triangular relief – my knee was only scuffed, my ankle wasn’t broken and we were nearly off the damned mountain.

 I learned quickly that the key to successfully getting up and down a mountain is not falling over. Staying upright is easier said than done when you cannot see where you are putting your feet. Now that I come to think of it, I have difficulty walking up my street without tripping over – what the hell was I thinking of? Almost every step demanded a level of concentration which was as sapping as the physical effort required to climb or descend. The use of walking poles was invaluable, transforming me from a teetering biped into a marginally more stable quadruped. At 6 ft 4, my additional limbs didn’t exactly turn me into a mountain goat – more a kind of arthritic giraffe – but they were my trusted swords in the battle against the evil forces of gravity. Whilst my poles lent me physical support, I was equally dependent upon the moral and mental crutch on offer from my fellow trekkers. The truth is, I think it was as much the words of guidance, the generosity of spirit, and the compelling desire not to make an idiot of myself in front of them, which kept me on my feet, for the most part anyway.

And, as you may have already surmised, it was no easy gig for my guides, operating as my personal ‘trip adviser’ for several hours at a time.  They had to provide direction – “shimmy left, step sharp right”, information – “18 incher coming up now” and white lies – “It’s not far now, I can see the top” in equal measure. It was a lot of responsibility for them – who would want to risk walking a blind guy off the edge of a mountain? Apart perhaps from his wife, who had opted instead to stay home with the dogs.

Of course, there were times when gravity was not my forceful foe but my best buddy. Like for example, when battling the 40mph wind that welcomed us to the summit of Snowdon, whipping around our heads, tugging at our clothes and bags, driving ice-cold rain into our faces. Had someone inadvertently enraged an ancient Welsh mountain god, invoking this hostile reception to its summit? I gripped tighter onto my guide’s arm, fearful of being hurled back to England by an angry gust, but my hands were now semi-frozen, along with my nose and ears.  “Great fun, this mountain climbing” I joked, but the words were whipped away by the wind. I like to think they are still blowing around out there somewhere, untethered by the pull of the earth.

 

 

A-wake on the bus?

Last week I was shocked by something I didn’t hear on the bus. That is to say, I didn’t hear a thing. And it was a very busy bus, jam packed with people on their way to work – so busy that several of us were standing in the aisle. And yet, for the entire 15 minute duration of my short commute into Newcastle, I didn’t hear one conversation. Not even a monologue , no giggling schoolgirls, no crying babies or shushing parents. The silence was only broken by the creaks and moans of the bus itself, and the feint tinny jangling of someone’s headphones.

And it really bothered me. I’m not sure why, or even if, I should be so irked by this. I mean, some people would no doubt love to have such a peaceful and calm carriage to work. But I hated it.  I’ve travelled on quiet buses before, but never on one so full and yet so silent. I found myself wondering if this was a stereotypically British thing  - I couldn’t imagine this scenario happening in New York, Delhi or Paris.

Of course, I also couldn’t help thinking that it is simply a sign of these digital times – times when we are so busy communicating with our vast social networks that we can’t possibly spare the time or the energy to converse with those around us. And before you accuse me of being some middle aged fart of a Luddite, I must reject at least the last part of that description. I love my smartphone as much as the next man, possibly more, given the amazing access it gives me to stuff that would previously have been simply out of reach of me and my dysfunctional eyes. However, it’s nice occasionally to turn to that next man and discuss last night’s TV with him, or the football results,  the weather, the state of the roads, or whatever.

As a blind person I have grown accustomed to the sinking realisation that occurs when I work out that I’m talking to someone who  is not there. I guess it is just going to happen more often now, even when I know they are sitting right beside me. So, I’ll keep quiet like everyone else.

 

Green Man - Blue Air

Fortunately, I had heard the car approaching

Unusually fast, I remember thinking,

Considering I’m half way across the crossing, I

Keep on walking, slower now and then

I stop

Not going any further.

Glad I did, as the car skids past me

 

I wonder what the driver thinks

Did he/she not see me?

I’m the blind one after all.

Only fair to scream my considered opinion of

The driver who nearly killed me today.

over the limit

Just the other day, Mrs B received a nice letter in the post, informing her that she had been caught speeding, and asking her to fess up to being the driver in question. I jokingly suggested that perhaps I could claim responsibility for the offence as there was little chance of me accruing any more points. This got me thinking as to my possible response to the authorities…

 

Dear Sir/Madam

Further to your recent correspondence with my good lady wife, I wish to inform you that it was in fact my good self driving the car when the speeding infringement took place.

Before you decide on the appropriate sanctions relating to this offence, I would just like to offer up some mitigation in my defence.

First, due to my severe lack of sight, I was unable to see the speedometer display on the dashboard. Being a responsible driver, I did use my other senses to do my best to estimate my travelling speed at the time. I could not smell the tyres burning, the windows were not rattling and I could feel only the slightest G-force pulling at my face. I therefore concluded that my speed was reasonable for the road conditions. Until car manufacturers start to make their displays more accessible for the blind then we will continue to have these problems.

Secondly, my sight loss makes it impossible for me to see any road signs, including those indicating the speed limit. Once again, I am disadvantaged by my disability and the blatant disregard for my communication needs. Has the local authority ever heard of the social model of disability?

Third, in recognising the dangers of having to drive in an environment clearly not set up to meet my needs, I was doing the considerate thing by driving as fast as I could to my destination, thus minimising the time spent on the road and the associated risks.

Finally, I am sure you appreciate how important it is for blind people to maintain their independence, and driving my car is the best way for me to do this. Once a friend or neighbour has helped me locate the vehicle, and helped me put my guide dog into the boot, I am good to go, with no further assistance needed.

I trust you will take these circumstances into account when dealing with my offence.

 

Yours sincerely

 

Bogsey.

Blind Drunk

The relationship between alcohol and the visually-impaired, in my experience, is a complicated one. Before I started using a white cane to alert people to my sight issue, there was always the risk that my stumbling, tripping up and bumping into people would be mistaken for the effects of one too many drinks. Of course, there were occasions when this was indeed the case, but more often it was the case that drinking tends to be done in dark, noisy, crowded places where poor sight is something of a hindrance. “Sorry for spilling your pint, good man, but I have a rare genetic eye condition which restricts my vision in low lighting and has unfortunately resulted in this mishap” tends not to defuse the situation. I found it a lot easier to use a symbol cane. Even if it doesn’t save me from a thumping I can at least use it to poke the ignorant bastard in the eye. See how he likes it.

Of course, this type of incident is not the only risk associated with the VI on a night out. Scientific studies have shown a statistical correlation between having a tipple and a topple. One for the road can easily lead to wandering into the road. And as for cocktails, let’s just not go there.

However, I’m sure many Vis will agree that a few drinks can have hugely beneficial effects when it comes to getting around. It’s not that it improves sight (mind you, what a marvellous treatment that would be), it’s more that the relaxing effect of the drink reduces the tension associated with not being able to see what you are doing – the anxiety of waiting to bump into something or someone, and this often leads to a much more enjoyable walk home from the pub than the journey there. Even if you do come a cropper on the way back, the analgesic effect of the booze means that it doesn’t hurt as much anyway, and, if enough medicine has been consumed, is more likely to result in raucous and quite inappropriate laughter rather than screams of pain.

If this sounds a little irresponsible from a health, safety and wellbeing perspective, I have noticed that singing or humming a nice song whilst walking has a similar soporific effect. I wonder if it is a similar neurological effect to that enjoyed by people with a stammer, who find it easier to sing, or who can talk more fluently when music is played to them.

Of course, the danger in singing your way down the street is that passers-by conclude that you have been on the drink again.  Mind you, if you are singing into the end of your cane, or dancing seductively around it, they may well have a point.

 

Alive in the Sahara

Sitting high up on the precarious ridge of sand, I felt the wind cooling my sweat-soaked body. And I felt as alive as I can remember feeling. We had spent all morning, the third in our four-day trek, climbing up a loose sandy track onto a rocky ledge, passable only in single file, with a rope secured on one side for support. Slowly, deliberately, we picked our way along the ledge. The rocks that lay perilously below to our right were an aspect of the Sahara I did not want to explore more closely, so I concentrated hard on following the instructions of David, my sighted guide for this particular part of the trek.

It was David, who also happened to be the CEO of the charity for which we were all undertaking this challenge, who had spoken about ‘risk’ on our first evening in the desert, gathered around a comforting fire beneath a bright moon and stars that seemed curious to know us. He read a poem, the upshot of which was ‘if you don’t ever take risks you are not living’. Sitting on that ridge, having walked along its length as it turned from rock to sand, dropping sharply on both sides who knows how far, I allowed myself a few moments to reflect on just how true those words had been.

For me, and for many of the group, this was the high point of the trek, both physically and emotionally. The peak of a trek that seemed to take an age to start. Having spent a day on aeroplanes and airport floors, it was a relief to finally be within striking distance of what we had come for. After a reasonably comfortable night in a budget hotel, we were ready to crack on, to put all that training to good use. After a few hours on buses, driving out into increasingly remote landscapes, it was with some trepidation that we were transferred into our off-road vehicles. It wasn’t quite cattle-class, but the stifling air inside our vans was thick with jokes about kidnapping and illegal immigrants. Another couple of hours into our journey and we were beyond fed up – it was desert enough for us, honest, and we would just love to start the trek now…let me out!!!

Eventually, a tired, somewhat dishevelled group of trekkers were dumped somewhere in the Moroccan Sahara and we were off!

I don’t mind admitting, that first night in the desert was tough. Lying in my tent with five complete strangers, three of whom were competing for the title of top trek snorer, the fatigue of the travelling combined with a realisation that there was no ducking out now. It wasn’t so much ‘I’m a celebrity get me out of here’ as ‘I’m a blind guy stuck in the desert with a bunch of other blind/partially-sighted people and I’d really like to go home now please’. Although my main bag felt heavy enough, neither Ant nor Dec had travelled with me from Newcastle, and I didn’t reckon my chances of getting a taxi home were that good. Had I thought about it more in advance, I would have been more prepared for my mild panic. Going away from a familiar environment like home or work, always renders me more disabled – not knowing where anything is, having to ask for help – it’s the kind of dependency that I try to avoid, and after many holidays and trips away I should expect this initial period of frustration as I adapt to my new environment.

There was little chance of this gloom lasting long – there was serious walking to be done, and some seriously good people to walk with. No doubt each of them was dealing with their own personal challenges, taking their own personal risks. Whilst we wanted for our creature comforts, kindness, mutual respect and support were in abundance, and friendships formed that I suspect will last for many miles to come. And we had a great mix of technical and professional skills – I tell you, if the Moroccans had wanted us to build a mail sorting office filled with very secure computers, lovely wooden furniture and excellent plumbing, we were the men/women for the job. It seems word hadn’t got through to the authorities, so instead we satisfied ourselves with putting one foot in front of the other until someone who seemed to know what they were doing guided us into a camp, where we were given nectar in the form of sweet mint tea, and replenished with excellent local food, patched up, medicated and congratulated on making it through the day.

Whilst my lack of central vision prevents me from enjoying the many photos that have since emerged of this adventure, the experiences are easily conjured back to mind…the sense of vast open space, the freedom of walking unaided across flat, baked earth, the joyful laughter of our hosts, the joy of a hot shower at the end.

And most of all, that sense of alertness, of living, of taking that risk, as I stood on that ridge high up in the Saharan sky, and ran forward…

Making the most of it

The weather presenter on the radio this morning said “It’s going to be unseasonably mild again, but not for long, so make the most of it”

Dear boss

I hope you don’t mind me not turning in for work on this lovely, warm, sunny day. Please be assured that I had fully intended fully attending work, but received firm, some might say authoritative instructions to do something rather more interesting.

Please imagine for one second. There I was, ready to leave the house for work, willing, if not eager to spend another day in your lovely company. Suddenly, I hear the weather presenter on the radio (national radio that is) and I probably do her a disservice describing her as a presenter. I’m sure she was in fact a fully qualified and experienced expert in all things meteorological. Anyway, she gave a clear, unequivocal instruction to “make the most of it” - the unseasonably warm weather, that is.

Now, before you jump to any conclusions about me skiving off work to lounge around the garden, let me point out no less, or more, than three quite critical points:

1.       I do not actually have a garden, merely a small rear yard, with quite insufficient lounging room.

2.       This was an instruction broadcast on the BBC – a publicly funded institution, paid for by us all. So, in effect, I was being democratically instructed by the nation to make the most of the nice weather. That includes you.

3.       Who are we to trust, in matters of the weather and how we should cope with it, if not the experts? Why do we rely on the Met Office to issue severe weather warnings, flood alerts and the like, if all we do is turn a blind eye, or two in my case? Surely only anarchy lies down that slippery slope.

 

I trust this explanation meets your approval and will see you tomorrow, weather permitting.

 

Yours faithfully

 

Bogsey

Stepping Out

A number of close shaves have recently led me to the conclusion that someone is out there to get me. There can be no other rational explanation and indeed, it may be worse. The range of different people involved in this plot can only mean one thing - those that can't see are being targeted by those that can.

For example, last week I was out on my own with F!ash and had only got to the end of my street when an attack took place. I needed to cross the road, which was busy with school-run traffic. The lane nearest to me was very busy, and soon filled with a lot of stationary traffic. The other lane was less busy. I waited until I could hear a gap in the far traffic and gingerly ventured out into the standing traffic to assess the chances of getting across safely. Just as I step into the road I hear a woman's voice - "Go on love, you're alright, it's clear". I'm pretty sure that's whatt she said, but it was a bit tricky to hear, due to the noise of a car approaching rather fast. So I ignored her encouragement to step infront of said car and eventually she called out "No! Not now!" - an entirely unnecessary warning as I wasn't about to follow her original instruction. I have learnt over the years one of the golden rules of living with sight loss - don't trust people who can see.

This incident came shortly after another attempt on my life which took place while I was undrgoing training with F!ash. Thinkinng about it, perhaps this was deliberate - maybe they thought we were an easier target. Again, we were waiting at standing traffic. I patiently waited for the traffic lights to change and for the vehicle in front of me to move away, before I gave the instruction to F!ash to cross. As I was still training, my pursuer clearly hadn't realised that I had an instructor with me. Thankfully, she noticed that the van that had just pulled away had not judged the lights properly and didn't have time to complete his move, so then decided to reverse back towards me.  She was able to stop him before he could mow us both down.

Disturbingly, I think whoever is overseeing this plot to do me in has also enlisted the help of my nearest and dearest. In fact, I've had a number of near misses with the dear missus. One of her favourite ploys also involves road crossing. As we stand waiting to cross a roadd togetheer, she has a habit of saying "OK" about 5 seconds before a car whizzes past. So far, I've always heard the car approaching and ignored her. She claims "OK" means "OK to cross once this speeding car has gone past" but I'm not so sure.

It's no wonder some blind people don't go out much!

I'm still sitting

I have to admit, I would not have thought of parting with any hard earned cash to go and see Elton John. I don’t class myself as particularly trendy or alternative, but he’s always been a wee bit too middle-of-the-road for me. And after the diamond jubilee, I felt I’d had my fill of ageing queens. But when I was offered tickets to go to his gig in Newcastle, I thought it best not to lead a gift horse to water without closing the stable door first. When I asked my loved ones who wanted to come with me, the excitement was almost existent. Dom finally decided that, although he ‘hated’ Elton, he didn’t despise him enough to turn down a free gig.


On our arrival at the venue, Dom confirmed that he probably was the youngest person there, and there were quite a lot of older people. I wasn’t sure how to feel about this. Am I one of them now? I guess so...with failing sight, grey hair and a recent hernia op scar, I probably didn’t stand out in the crowd of coffin-dodgers.

Although the seats were pretty close to the front, they were a little wasted on me. I could just about make out a few different shaped blobs on the stage. One of the blobs seemed to move in a familiar way, and I assumed this was the man himself. I like to feel I was looking in the right direction and not giving one of the backing singers the wrong idea.

As if I needed any further confirmation of my status as an old fart, I found myself fairly quickly wishing that they would turn the volume down a bit. The drums in particular seemed to be drowning out almost everything else, and at one point I was worried that if I turned my head to one side the sound would blast straight into one ear and out of the other – not a pleasant prospect for the person sitting behind me. I was also convinced that the bass was loosening my fillings. What’s more, Dom seemed concerned that the lighting might induce me to have a fit.

An hour and a half in, it dawned on us that Elton was on top form and enjoying himself, so any prospect of an interval was highly unlikely. I felt some crumb of comfort that at least I didn’t need the loo and that, given the average age of the audience, this would not be true of many of them.

“Oh Nikita you will never know

Just how much I need to go”

And I was actually enjoying the concert. It’s hard not too...Mr John and his songs seem to have been around forever. They were certainly part of the backdrop of my youth and hearing him belt them out in a non-stop high-energy performance was strangely evocative and incredibly impressive.

Two hours in and I have to admit I was getting a little uncomfortable perched on my plastic seat. I cursed the fact that I hadn’t worn some more stretchy jeans, as the pair I was wearing were rubbing a bit on my scar and my mid-life paunch wanted to come out and join the party. I had to concede that if the whole experience had taught me something it was “Goodbye normal jeans’.

medical notes

The last time I was admitted to hospital was when I caught chicken pox at the age of 30. ‘after having some sort of fit induced by incessant barfing, I must not have been a pretty sight for the ambulance men. They may well have considered saving the NHS a few quid by taking me straight to the morgue, but instead whisked me to ‘a and E. There I was questioned, prodded and poked by a series of nurses and junior doctors, none of whom could find much wrong with me, aside from looking like I’d just crawled out of a local cemetery. One doctor, who clearly hadn’t bothered reading my notes, was disturbed by the fact that I was unable to see how many fingers she was holding up. ‘Apparently she had turned quite pale, presumably at the thought of having to break the bad news of my sudden sight loss. This time, at least my visit was pre-planned. I had already had my pre-assessment visit the week before, which I mistakenly thought was to check that I was fit enough for the planned hernia repair. It was only as I sat, somewhat dazed in the waiting area, one of the nurses having just let me head butt a magazine rack, that I realised they were testing my resilience for what was to come. She did reassure me that my head was not punctured, unlike my abdomen, which would be repaired by cutting me open and sticking some sort of mesh patch in there. A bit like mending a flat tyre. I wish she hadn’t used the word tyre...a bit too close to the mark. Fortunately, the staff who looked after me when I was admitted a week later, were a little more careful. In fact, a little too careful for my liking. Once they had decided that I shouldn’t risk walking to theatre so had ordered a trolley, I resisted the temptation to object and point out that my eyes may be f***ed but my legs still work ok. Who knows, they may been protecting me from some particularly vicious magazine racks en route to theatre. The issue of signing a consent form caused some degree of agitation. They were quite keen to get someone to witness the form to make sure no-one had amended it before I signed – not sure what they were expecting – a junior doctor with a sick sense of humour perhaps, crossing out hernia and replacing it with penis enlargement? I should be so lucky. The fact that, if properly guided to put the pen in the right place, I could actually sign my name, seemed to amaze some of them. Anyway, as I sit at home recuperating, which involves not moving very much, apart from to find and consume food, I now wish I had checked with the hospital staff that they were going to put in elasticated mesh. Otherwise I fear I may be back for another puncture repair before too long.