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…