With Valentine’s Day fast approaching...well, o.k., approaching at a rate no faster than any other day...I am, of course, expecting a plentiful bundle of cards and gifts to be arriving shortly. No doubt there will be far too many to just drop through the letter box, so I will have to answer the door to collect my goodies. “So what?” I hear you saying, rather rudely if I may say so. Well, I agree that this mundane task should really not be worth writing about. But the fact is, answering the door to a postman or delivery man is, for me and many like me I suspect, still a difficult social interaction.
After nearly 30 years of living with a visual impairment, you’d think I’d be used to this everyday (or every week) occurrence. But stop! Hey wait a minute mister postman. Not so. The fact is that each of those deliveries is a moment where the package has to transfer across the threshold from the sighted world to the visually-impaired, and that can be a messy business.
Here’s why. The unsuspecting delivery man, no doubt not really expecting anyone to answer the door anyway, quite often doesn’t announce himself. Why should he? After all, he’s dressed in a nice postie-type delivery-man uniform, and is stood at my door holding out a parcel. You’d have to be an idiot, or blind, not to know what was going on. Yes, ok, or both. Thanks. Of course, if he saw me out and about with my guide-dog, or a white cane, he’d know better, but he hasn’t and I’m not. I look pretty normal. Well, unless it’s an early morning delivery, when he might be forgiven for thinking he’s delivering to some kind of horror attraction.
Usually, the nice man realises there’s something up with me and shoves the parcel into my hands. Except more often than not, there’s also the whole signing of the electronic gadget fiasco to go through. “Sorry, mate, I can’t see” I say. “Oh, o.k. mate, just sign in the box”. “Sorry, I can’t see”. “Just under the address sir”. “Sorry, I can’t see”. Etc. Etc.
Eventually the nice man either gets bored and just signs it himself, or he has to guide me to sign in the right place. So then this perfect stranger, whom I’ve only met a few seconds ago, has moved in close and has hold of my hand. “Up a bit, up a bit more, that’s it!” Most undignified, I have to say.
Tuesday, January 26, 2010
Monday, January 18, 2010
What goes around comes around
Generally speaking, I am not a believer in fate. I like to think that we are ruled only by a swirling cloud of chaos and mishap. However, every now and again events conspire to make me wonder if there isn’t someone up there having a good laugh. One such event happened to me at the end of last year and, before I go any further, I must apologise for once again returning to toilet humour for my post. I’ll lose interest in the topic when I grow up.
Anyway, my cautionary tale actually starts some eight years earlier on my first day working for my current employer. As is my won’t, I decided to try out the facilities. Of course, my induction documentation said nothing about the dodgy lock on the gents’, which was a single toilet affair, opening onto a corridor. So you can imagine my surprise when I was sat there in my glory and the door opened and thankfully closed again fairly quickly with a few mumbled apologies. Of course, the misery did not end there. As the toilet was several feet from the door, I had to shuffle along pretty sharpish before anyone else decided to pay a visit. That was one mistake, possibly the only mistake, that I did not make again during those eight years.
Fast forward to my very last day in the same office, prior to a move to a brand new building. Mind no doubt full of reminiscences, I wandered along to pay a final visit to the same offending lav, still with the dodgy lock. Of course, it wasn’t until he said something that I realised the seat was already taken. Thank goodness I didn’t have my ipod in.
Now, that sort of symmetry doesn’t happen by accident does it? What’s more bizarre is that it could easily have been the same guy on both occasions. I’ll never know, thank goodness.
Anyway, my cautionary tale actually starts some eight years earlier on my first day working for my current employer. As is my won’t, I decided to try out the facilities. Of course, my induction documentation said nothing about the dodgy lock on the gents’, which was a single toilet affair, opening onto a corridor. So you can imagine my surprise when I was sat there in my glory and the door opened and thankfully closed again fairly quickly with a few mumbled apologies. Of course, the misery did not end there. As the toilet was several feet from the door, I had to shuffle along pretty sharpish before anyone else decided to pay a visit. That was one mistake, possibly the only mistake, that I did not make again during those eight years.
Fast forward to my very last day in the same office, prior to a move to a brand new building. Mind no doubt full of reminiscences, I wandered along to pay a final visit to the same offending lav, still with the dodgy lock. Of course, it wasn’t until he said something that I realised the seat was already taken. Thank goodness I didn’t have my ipod in.
Now, that sort of symmetry doesn’t happen by accident does it? What’s more bizarre is that it could easily have been the same guy on both occasions. I’ll never know, thank goodness.
Sunday, January 10, 2010
Little Wonkey
As has become something of a tradition in our house, we once again made the radical decision at Christmas time to go to church. I know, rebels or what? And, as usual, I was lulled into thinking I would enjoy a nice carol concert. Perhaps due to the infrequency of my church attendances, it always comes as a bit of a disappointment when the church organ starts up and, with everyone else I stand up in readiness to sing of joy and good will. Only at that point do I realise that I can’t remember the words to any of the carols, apart maybe from the opening of Once in Royal David’s City...and they always keep that bit for the choir.
So, as usual I felt very self-conscious humming along and looking very bored. I always imagine that the priest is going to spot me, stop the music and demand to know what is the matter with me. He didn’t – thank his boss.
However,
I was very interested to learn about the project to which the collection from the service was to go. Apparently, Newcastle is blessed with a team of ‘street pastors’ whose job it is to offer comfort and counsel to members of the flock who get into trouble after what we fondly call a ‘neet oot on the lash’.
It wasn’t until I checked out the project’s website that I realised the true nature of their work. The following is an extract from www.streetpastas..org.uk
The Street Pastas project started in Italy, under the leadership of the Reverend Al Dente, and now operates in many of Europe’s urban centres.
Street Pastas provide support to the fallen and the stumbling, often in very practical ways, as demonstrated by these wonderful examples:
Jimmy, aged 32 from Whitley Bay –“I felt terrible. I think my tenth pint was bad. Anyhow I was out in the street trying to vom but I just couldn’t get it up. Then this gadgy turns up and offers me some spaghetti – right long stuff it was. It was half down my throat when he yanked it oot again. Ya bugger that did the trick, champion. I felt terrible about his shoes like, but hey, what can you do?”
Sharon, 19, from Wideopen“I’d been on tequila slammers all-night and as soon as I hit the fresh air I went down. Dropped me chips and everything. Then, out of nowhere, this bloke came up. I thought I’d pulled. But then he lifted me head up and put this massive piece of ravioli under it. It was dead comfy – I was out like a light.”
So, as usual I felt very self-conscious humming along and looking very bored. I always imagine that the priest is going to spot me, stop the music and demand to know what is the matter with me. He didn’t – thank his boss.
However,
I was very interested to learn about the project to which the collection from the service was to go. Apparently, Newcastle is blessed with a team of ‘street pastors’ whose job it is to offer comfort and counsel to members of the flock who get into trouble after what we fondly call a ‘neet oot on the lash’.
It wasn’t until I checked out the project’s website that I realised the true nature of their work. The following is an extract from www.streetpastas..org.uk
The Street Pastas project started in Italy, under the leadership of the Reverend Al Dente, and now operates in many of Europe’s urban centres.
Street Pastas provide support to the fallen and the stumbling, often in very practical ways, as demonstrated by these wonderful examples:
Jimmy, aged 32 from Whitley Bay –“I felt terrible. I think my tenth pint was bad. Anyhow I was out in the street trying to vom but I just couldn’t get it up. Then this gadgy turns up and offers me some spaghetti – right long stuff it was. It was half down my throat when he yanked it oot again. Ya bugger that did the trick, champion. I felt terrible about his shoes like, but hey, what can you do?”
Sharon, 19, from Wideopen“I’d been on tequila slammers all-night and as soon as I hit the fresh air I went down. Dropped me chips and everything. Then, out of nowhere, this bloke came up. I thought I’d pulled. But then he lifted me head up and put this massive piece of ravioli under it. It was dead comfy – I was out like a light.”
Wednesday, September 23, 2009
Hello Sailor
My first experience of sailing did not get off to the smoothest of starts. Yes, York is a nice place, but an hour and a half stuck in the station while they cleared some poor bugger off the line was no fun. So by the time I eventually arrived at Ipswich I was certainly looking forward to a more tranquil and relaxing form of transport.
A short car journey to the marina and, in no time at all, I was safely aboard Incus, a 32-feet yacht, with my captain for the weekend, Ian, and his first mate, Ross. Clearly keen to set me at ease, Ross cheerfully informed me that there had been an issue with his CRB clearance but I shouldn’t worry about it. In normal circumstances I might have feared for my virginity, but hey, the guy had brought a Chinese take-away and I was starving, so I figured it was worth the risk.
Bellies filled, my fellow sailors set about establishing my previous experience, skills and qualifications to be employed over the coming 48 hours. Before you could yell ‘Ahoy there’ they had established that I was about as much use as a tin of spam in a synagogue. Which meant, of course, more work for them. I felt sure they’d get their own back at some point.
During a fitful sleep, I learned that my fellow sailor’s revenge for landing them with my fat useless northern arse was stereophonic snoring. Still, whilst I could hear them snoring I knew they weren’t busy plotting my watery demise.
The actual sailing bit seemed to me a bit complicated. Shallow waters to navigate, big cargo ships to avoid, sails to let out and pull in, angles to work out, buoys to spot, tides to judge and so on. Just as well I was there to keep them right, I reckon. They say a good sailor should be able to sail by the feel of the wind on his face. All I needed was an audio compass to keep me right, but skipper Ian reckoned this electronic, bleeping device would be bleeping annoying. Instead I had them both telling me every five seconds “5 degrees right”, “Ten degrees left” etc. Much more relaxing.
At one point I felt sure that Ross’s CRB issue was about to become all too clear. We were heading for a nice quiet backwater – somewhere where we wouldn’t be disturbed. But first, we had to pick up a boy! Thankfully, once we’d picked up the buoy we found our backwater and dropped anchor for a delightful lunch.
All in all a splendid weekend, with two very nice southerners. Weird, eh?
A short car journey to the marina and, in no time at all, I was safely aboard Incus, a 32-feet yacht, with my captain for the weekend, Ian, and his first mate, Ross. Clearly keen to set me at ease, Ross cheerfully informed me that there had been an issue with his CRB clearance but I shouldn’t worry about it. In normal circumstances I might have feared for my virginity, but hey, the guy had brought a Chinese take-away and I was starving, so I figured it was worth the risk.
Bellies filled, my fellow sailors set about establishing my previous experience, skills and qualifications to be employed over the coming 48 hours. Before you could yell ‘Ahoy there’ they had established that I was about as much use as a tin of spam in a synagogue. Which meant, of course, more work for them. I felt sure they’d get their own back at some point.
During a fitful sleep, I learned that my fellow sailor’s revenge for landing them with my fat useless northern arse was stereophonic snoring. Still, whilst I could hear them snoring I knew they weren’t busy plotting my watery demise.
The actual sailing bit seemed to me a bit complicated. Shallow waters to navigate, big cargo ships to avoid, sails to let out and pull in, angles to work out, buoys to spot, tides to judge and so on. Just as well I was there to keep them right, I reckon. They say a good sailor should be able to sail by the feel of the wind on his face. All I needed was an audio compass to keep me right, but skipper Ian reckoned this electronic, bleeping device would be bleeping annoying. Instead I had them both telling me every five seconds “5 degrees right”, “Ten degrees left” etc. Much more relaxing.
At one point I felt sure that Ross’s CRB issue was about to become all too clear. We were heading for a nice quiet backwater – somewhere where we wouldn’t be disturbed. But first, we had to pick up a boy! Thankfully, once we’d picked up the buoy we found our backwater and dropped anchor for a delightful lunch.
All in all a splendid weekend, with two very nice southerners. Weird, eh?
Monday, August 24, 2009
keep your ear on the ball
Thank goodness the Ashes are over. I can now relax in the knowledge that I am not going to be called upon to do my duty for England, and can instead concentrate on honing my skills as a visually-impaired (VI) cricketer.
VI cricket, as I have only just discovered, is not as daft an idea as it might at first sound. Of course, a few equipment and rule adaptations are required. For example, rather than the normal cricket ball, a small football is used and it contains some ball-bearings to give players an auditory clue as to its whereabouts. A larger than normal set of stumps is also used, but normal sized cricket bats are employed – I was rather hoping I could use a giant bat and just stand behind it.
It is certainly an interesting experience. On my first attempt at bowling I had Geoffrey Boycott’s words at the forefront of my mind – “Keep bowling in the corridor of uncertainty”. With only the wicket-keepers claps to guide me I couldn’t help feeling that I would be pitching it anywhere in a very wide motorway of extreme uncertainty for myself, and one in which the batsman would not only need good hearing but also very, very long arms. However, I did manage to keep broadly in line with the stumps which meant a rather perverse sense of satisfaction was derived from hearing the ball being smacked away - a feeling which I’m sure will wear off in time.
VI cricket, as I have only just discovered, is not as daft an idea as it might at first sound. Of course, a few equipment and rule adaptations are required. For example, rather than the normal cricket ball, a small football is used and it contains some ball-bearings to give players an auditory clue as to its whereabouts. A larger than normal set of stumps is also used, but normal sized cricket bats are employed – I was rather hoping I could use a giant bat and just stand behind it.
It is certainly an interesting experience. On my first attempt at bowling I had Geoffrey Boycott’s words at the forefront of my mind – “Keep bowling in the corridor of uncertainty”. With only the wicket-keepers claps to guide me I couldn’t help feeling that I would be pitching it anywhere in a very wide motorway of extreme uncertainty for myself, and one in which the batsman would not only need good hearing but also very, very long arms. However, I did manage to keep broadly in line with the stumps which meant a rather perverse sense of satisfaction was derived from hearing the ball being smacked away - a feeling which I’m sure will wear off in time.
Monday, July 6, 2009
Foley Ventures South
By rights I should really still be asleep, or at the very least slowly waking up over my morning coffee. Instead I find myself heading due south with Foley, destination King's Cross, for onward travel to a meeting in the swanky West End. We are travelling with the east-coast train operator that has just announced that it cannot run the line any longer and is handing it back to the government. So I am hoping that we make it back before the whole thing goes tickets up and the good old British Rail pork pie makes its return. Still, if we do get stranded down in the Smoke, at least I am suitably attired for the heat wave conditions, in a light shirt and trousers. So, it was absolutely no surprise to me when the taxi driver who brought us to the station gleefully informed me that it was chucking it down in London.
The train guard this morning sounds like he may have shares in his current employer's business. He can barely summon the will to blah blah blah his blah blah blahs. I'm just glad he's not driving the train. He makes Gordon Brown sound like a children's entertainer on acid.
Perhaps he is fed up because he has to share a little office with the guy coming round to collect the rubbish, whose body odour is something else. I just wish it was somewhere else. As he passes through the train he leaves a trail of spluttering passengers' who are now probably trying to hide any remaining litter before bin-bag Bob returns. Or maybe Happy Harry the guard is sick of the sight of his daily bacon sandwich. That I could understand. I can only assume that Justin the catering manager is practicing for the up-coming national flattest sandwich competition.THER that or he has very little space in which to store them so makes sure they comply to strict height control standards.
You will be glad to know that Foley seems unperturbed by it all and is having a good snooze. Not a bad idea.
The train guard this morning sounds like he may have shares in his current employer's business. He can barely summon the will to blah blah blah his blah blah blahs. I'm just glad he's not driving the train. He makes Gordon Brown sound like a children's entertainer on acid.
Perhaps he is fed up because he has to share a little office with the guy coming round to collect the rubbish, whose body odour is something else. I just wish it was somewhere else. As he passes through the train he leaves a trail of spluttering passengers' who are now probably trying to hide any remaining litter before bin-bag Bob returns. Or maybe Happy Harry the guard is sick of the sight of his daily bacon sandwich. That I could understand. I can only assume that Justin the catering manager is practicing for the up-coming national flattest sandwich competition.THER that or he has very little space in which to store them so makes sure they comply to strict height control standards.
You will be glad to know that Foley seems unperturbed by it all and is having a good snooze. Not a bad idea.
Sunday, March 1, 2009
Crazy Dog
Well, as predicted, I couldn’t leave the vicinity of the bathroom for long enough to have my ‘trial run’ on the scheduled day. Fortunately it wasn’t too long before Huey Lewis stopped singing down the big white telephone and I was at last introduced to my potential match – a lovely yellow Labrador by the name of Foley – who, even two weeks before his eventual permanent arrival in the Bogsey household, is already affectionately known as Roly Poly Foley, Axel and Crazy Dog (ding ding).
Having waited 18 months for him, you’d think Mrs B would be happy with our prospective new arrival. But no. Having just read a book about an assistance dog that fetches shopping, does laundry and carries out life-saving first aid to its owner, she seems to think that a mere guide dog gets off rather lightly. Come to think about it, it wouldn’t be a bad idea if I could train young Foley up to do some slightly more advanced work, particularly in the office.
Job Description
Job Title: Bogsey’s Guide Dog
Main Purpose
To stop Bogsey from making a complete arse of himself.
Main Duties
1. To attract the attention of top totty, making it impossible for office babes to walk past without stopping for a friendly chat.
Having waited 18 months for him, you’d think Mrs B would be happy with our prospective new arrival. But no. Having just read a book about an assistance dog that fetches shopping, does laundry and carries out life-saving first aid to its owner, she seems to think that a mere guide dog gets off rather lightly. Come to think about it, it wouldn’t be a bad idea if I could train young Foley up to do some slightly more advanced work, particularly in the office.
Job Description
Job Title: Bogsey’s Guide Dog
Main Purpose
To stop Bogsey from making a complete arse of himself.
Main Duties
1. To attract the attention of top totty, making it impossible for office babes to walk past without stopping for a friendly chat.
2. To run errands, distributing post, fetching copier paper, making coffee etc, ensuring that health and safety regulations are complied with at all times.
3. To sniff out food, ensuring that colleagues feel obliged to reveal secret stocks and share them with team mates (i.e. Bogsey).
4. To promote efficiency, bringing about an abrupt end to over-running meetings using the ‘sorry, it’s something he’s eaten’ method.
5. To prepare ruff drafts of reports and other doguments.
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