On the Buses

Now that Spring is approaching, it’s a great relief that the mornings and evenings are starting to lighten up. One of the unfortunate consequences of being without a dog over the winter has been the need to travel by taxi far more than I would like, as even very familiar routes become too difficult without some natural light. It’s not that I have anything against taxis, but I was always told not to get into cars with strangers and I think this advice is still basically sound. I find most taxi drivers likeable, hard-working and generally very helpful, but there is something just too intimate about sharing my journeys to and from work with them.

I much prefer the anonymity afforded by the local buses, although this form of transport presents its own, sometimes formidable, set of problems for the VIP. The first task is to stop a bus and, assuming you’ve managed to stand at the correct bus stop, you might think this should not be too difficult. However, I have found that the sight of a guide-dog and his owner waiting anxiously at the roadside has little effect in stopping most buses as they charge towards their destination. I have considered holding a sign displaying the number of the bus I need but I suspect that even this would not be enough, and that a banner reading “Yes, I know it’s inconvenient and it might make you even later than you already are but I am not doing a charity collection here and would like to get to work before I and my dog die of boredom so please stop counting your change and let me on you ignorant git” might be required. But then again, it’s easier to ask a fellow traveller to assist in stopping one for you.

Once successfully onto the bus, the next hurdle to negotiate is paying for the ticket. Helpfully, drivers are now largely encased within a protective plastic shield. Before the days of concessionary passes, handing over the dosh involved a quick Marcel Marceau impression as I struggled to locate the breach in the driver’s armoury. Thankfully, most drivers spare me an encore performance and kindly retrieve my ticket from the machine for me.

And then the real fun starts. A VIP’s arse isn’t easily parked onto a spare seat and represents a real danger to fellow travellers. In self defence, the more astute (in reality, this is often the older traveller) will offer directions to try to guide the VIP, but in most cases are incapable of translating left and right to someone coming towards them. Mindful of the potential consequences of blindly following such guidance, I resort to groping around to establish whether there is indeed a spare seat, and in which direction it’s facing. It’s amazing how quickly an otherwise silent passenger will offer you more accurate instructions when you start groping around their lap.

The worst over, I now have the simple task of trying not to block the aisle with my guide-dog, or fold up my long cane without putting someone’s eye out, although there would be a nice irony in the latter. Finally, all I need to do is negotiate a successful exit at the correct stop. Not the most relaxing way to start the day, but I find it a lot less stressful than driving.

Animal Antics

Snake Hunt

I hate to have to tell you
But I think your snake is missing
Listen very carefully -
I bet you can’t hear hissing.


Jungle Grapevine

When a large group of elephants
Gathers for a quiet word
They often start a rumour
When their words are over-herd.


Mad Cows

Some cows seek amoosement
Others just mooch around
Some like to play rock moosic
While some like a more mooted sound
Some cows like watching moovies
Couples smooch all afternoon
Some don’t like commoonicating
While mad cows bark at the moon, moon, moon
While mad cows bark at the moon.

Mobility Training : What to do if your knob gets stuck in a drain.

Unfortunately, I missed this particular lesson, so was at a bit of a loss as to what to do when the tip of my long cane got well and truly jammed in the grill of a drain, while out for a walk not so long ago. It would probably have taught me not to do what I did, which was pull on my cane too hard so that the tip came off, something my mother had always warned me about.

A long cane is a poor substitute for a guide dog, but a long cane without a tip is, well, pointless. Whereas a dog anticipates obstacles and danger, taking you around them so that, most of the time, you are blissfully unaware of them, with a cane you basically clatter into things and have to work out a way around them. Or, on occasions, you miss the obstacle with the cane and find it instead with your shin. Nor is the cane much use at detecting anything above waist height, such as overhanging branches.

Anyway, despite its limitations I’ve grown very reliant on it in the absence of a dog, so had to set about finding a replacement tip. And what an array there is to choose from – pencil tip, marshmallow tip, Canadian rollertip – I wasn’t sure if I’d accidentally logged onto Boots the Chemist’s website instead of RNIB.

In the meantime, I had to find a new cane quickly. I’d tried using the old one without the tip, but steel on concrete doesn’t feel good, and I was worried that, walking down the street, I was going to create sparks and set someone’s trousers on fire. Fortunately, my local guide dog centre had a spare cane for me to borrow. I say borrow, although they never got it back as within a couple of hours of me getting it, I had tripped on a kerb. To describe the fall as ungainly would be kind. The words ‘sack’ and ‘potatoes’ spring to mind, and I managed to break my fall with my new cane, which was now two new canes. I managed to bravely hobble back to work, where colleagues dished out sweet tea and sympathy.

I do think that the cane manufacturers could be a little more creative with their designs for cane tips. For example, why not the “TasarTip” for temporarily stunning annoying people who get in your way. It would have to be a low voltage as old ladies would be the main targets, for me anyway. And how about the “TrimmerTip” fitted with a small circular saw that could remove hedges and branches with one easy swipe. Of course, the multiple-tip user would have to be careful not to get confused as this could get messy.

On the Slippery Slope

Really, I should have known better. For pity’s sake, it’s not like I’m a kid any more – I’m 39 years old – hardly a spring chicken. And aren’t we supposed to get wiser as we grow older? I’ve heard about body parts “heading south” when you get to this sort of age, so maybe the same thing is happening to my brain.

Perhaps it was a reaction against my age, a vain attempt to prove that I’ve still got what it takes, that I can still mix it with the young guys. After all, it wasn’t a big slope, and I’d already sledged down a few tricky descents with nothing more serious than a bum-crack full of ice to show for it.

Of course, Newtonian laws of physics did play their part, and, being rather tall, I do have a somewhat higher centre of gravity than your average middle-aged dork. So, it was hardly surprising that, on reaching the bottom of the slope and raising my hands in readiness for a self-congratulatory salute, I began to topple backwards.

It was at this point that I began to hear cries from my onlooking wife and kids. This was strange, as they had hitherto remained very quiet, particularly about the ditch I was now heading towards, and the icy-cold brook that was babbling along it. As I tumbled backwards I remember how appreciative I was that they had decided to offer these late warnings.

Thankfully, the fact that I am about as agile as an arthritic walrus meant that my gymnastics display stopped just short of a self-baptism in the wilds of Northumberland. Even worse, those few inches of water could have done for me – a point which will not be lost on Mrs Bogsey over the coming months, believe me. I’m sure a guide dog would never have let that happen to me.

Come Fly With Me

My in-laws will by now be approaching Dubai, en route for Brisbane. Thankfully, the strong winds that we’ve been experiencing in this part of the UK have subsided, so at least take-off should have been fairly smooth. However, I don’t envy them the long flight ahead.

Although hardly a seasoned traveller, I have found that flying can offer some very interesting experiences for the visually-impaired. For example, like other disabled customers, we can arrange special assistance at airports to help get us to and from the plane. In the bad old days, this might simply have involved providing a wheelchair, regardless of your type of disability. Better still, a few years ago on arrival into Amsterdam, we received some rather special treatment to help us get to a connecting flight. Obviously well trained in the need to protect the disabled customer’s dignity, our guide led the way at high speed, pushing through the busy airport and yelling “Blind Man! Blind Man!” at bemused travellers, as we followed on behind, apologetically.

However, it’s not all bad. Once on board the plane, the visually-impaired traveller is often treated to some extra close attention from the flight crew. On my only trip down under, flying with Singapore Airlines, my wife regularly reminds me of the time I accepted assistance for a guiding arm from the stewardess, to help me back to my seat from a trip to the gents. I maintain to this day that it was a complete accident that I grabbed the lady’s breast, and that I let go of it pretty sharpish. My wife claims she has never known me go to the toilet so much, and I think there is a fair chance that, if I ever go to Singapore again, I will immediately be arrested.

I’ve noticed that, with some airlines, assistance sometimes takes the form of being escorted onto the plane first. Next time this happens, as we’re walking past the other passengers, I think I might remark to my guide, in a nice loud voice, that “As the airlines first blind pilot, I don’t want to ruin my first flight by taking off late.”

Getting a Grip on Obesity

Consistent use of the afore-mentioned KW turbo-whisk will inevitably lead to an expansion of the old bogsey-belly. This is no laughing matter, as it is not particularly easy for a VIP to lose weight. Having crappy eye-sight makes it easy to lose many things, but not body lard. Walking too fast is fraught with dangers (see lamppost post below) and it can be hard to find a suitable sport in which to take part. So, I have resigned myself to hauling my fat backside to my local gym twice a week. There, I get to shed a few ounces whilst humiliating myself at the same time. For instance, this week, having exhausted my interest in exhausting myself on a bike that goes nowhere, I decided to do some more challenging stuff, and headed for the free weights. The fitness instructor, a nice chap with elbows which I must discuss further in a moment, wasted no time in remindingme what a complete wimp I am. "You'd better start by just lifting the bar without any weights," he explained, following up with "It weighs twenty kilos on its own." But it was too late. By very nicely trying to preserve my physical well-being, he had inadvertently dealt a crushing blow to my ego.

The problem of obesity is one which, although troubling to us VIPs, is also one with which we can be of great service to the nation. You might think that those of us who cannot see would not notice the growing problem of growing waistlines. Not so. Better still, we feel it happening right between our fingers. Every time we accept a guiding arm, we gather evidence of the health of the nation. Forget Body Mass Index, what the Government should be using is Blind Man's Index-finger. Taking hold of someone's elbow gives a very reliable predictive test of their weight. I would estimate that around 70% of the arms that have guided me over the past year have been limbs in need of slims. Of course, there is a huge variety, ranging from the "Skeletor" at one extreme, where care must be taken not to snap the guide's arm, to those where holding on at all is not really possible with only one hand.

Unlike the conventional measures like the BMI, we can also ascertain the difference between a big flabby arm and a big fit arm, like that of my gym instructor, which feels like a smallish tree trunk.

In just the same way that we gather TV ratings or weather predictions from volunteers around the country, an army of volunteer blind people could be out there each day sending back data that could shape the future of services like the NHS. The data could be analysed in a national flaboratory.

Food for Thought

Thanks to the January sales, I am now the proud owner of a spangling new Kenwod Chef. Old Kenneth Wood really knew what boys like when he strapped an outboard motor to a whisk. I wonder why it doesn't come with ear protectors as standard.

The preparation and consumption of food are activities which present their own set of challenges for the visually impaired person (VIP). Difficulties with the latter, from my experience, are the more challenging and, to an extent, more critical for the VIP’s self esteem.

Cooking for me and my family has never really been a problem. Armed with a good recipe book and a few helpful gadgets, such as talking scales, I can be a dab hand with my apron and rolling pin. Checking the instructions or contents can be tricky – taking a chance normally works out okay, but when it doesn’t, you know about it. My most recent disaster of this type involved serving pasta with a delicious covering of carrot soup. However, I generally find that having impaired vision doesn’t have too much of an impact when it comes to preparing a meal. Perhaps it’s because there are so many other senses that come into play. As well as tasting (vital when cooking anything with chocolate in, of course), I can check texture by feeling, sniff out whether I’m using the right herb and listen to find out whether my pan is boiling or simmering. I do have to admit to leaving a trail of destruction in my wake – there isn’t usually a cooking utensil untouched, but I put this down to being a bloke rather than anything to do with my sight. Creation completed, I usually retire, victorious at this point, glowing with the pride of a hunter-gatherer providing for his dependants, armed only with a spatula and half bottle of Shiraz, and let my wife repair the damage.

Eating food, however, is an altogether more tricky business. For a VIP, eating a meal is fraught with physical, social and emotional dangers. Struggling to eat a meal in front of others can be a humiliating, frustrating and embarrassing experience. The basic problem is similar to that suffered by the toddler who, due to a lack of fine motor control, finds it difficult to co-ordinate what he sees with what he does with his hands. For me, the problem is the other way around, but the result is often the same – spilled food, too much food in the mouth, dribbles and spills. The toddler has the advantage of low expectations, a high chair, nice plastic spoons and a bib. For the VIP, there is often only polite attempts not to notice.

Through this experience, you learn that there are ways of managing the risk. Finger buffets, for example, are a potential disaster zone, and I now gladly let someone else fill my plate for me rather than risk picking up one and a half sandwiches or putting my fingers into the salsa dip. Lighting is also key – generally people like to eat in subdued lighting, whereas I will always ask for a window seat in a restaurant, or extra candles on the table. If I have the choice, I’ve learned to be careful about what I choose to eat – there are some things that, however tasty they may be, just aren’t worth the effort. If you think of a scale with porridge at one end and lobster thermodore at the other, you’ll get my drift. I am currently at risk of becoming the world’s slowest eater, as half my forkfuls of food are all fork and no full, and I can spend a mouth-watering amount of time chasing food around my plate. Being told exactly what is on my plate and where can help, such as “sausages at 3 o’clock, chips at 7 o’clock and beans at 10 o’clock ” Unfortunately, some of the food (especially little bloody peas) inevitably ends up in a totally different time zone, but, hey, what else are table-cloths for?