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.

bad sight stops play

This picture, believe it or not, is of me playing cricket during the great warm weather we’ve been having recently. I offer it here as photographic evidence of the potential dangers of playing VI cricket without the appropriate protective clothing.

Thankfully, when I play for my club, Durham VICC, we tend not to play on raised pitches, with a sheer drop to rose bushes and other garden-related dangers. And even if we did, I don’t suppose we’d set up the stumps quite so near the edge of the grass. And even if we did, I guess I would, as befits someone with my degree of sight loss, enlist the help of a runner – i.e. someone who can see where the hell they are running – someone who is, therefore, able to avoid going for a quick single, setting off at an angle and ending up doing a twisting half-pike of the wall into the thorny rose garden.

Oh, how I guffawed when Mrs B, normally oblivious to anything to do with the game, showed some remarkable knowledge by suggesting that I should be playing at the Rosebowl. Lol, as they say these days.