ΒιΆΉΤΌΕΔ

Being the impressionable young soul that I am, I thought I’d follow Zephyr, The Goldfish and LB’s Editor and join in this news article lark. It has turned out to be a very graceful jump on to the accessible bandwagon. For, at the top of the website for my hometown’s local newspaper, was

β€œDisabled daughter's agony as power cut lasts 11 hours”. First of all, if I lived in Tilehurst I’d be in agony too, it smells funny. Or at least the house my paternal grandfather shared with his wife there smelt funny. More interesting than the smell of Reading’s suburbs (as they teach you in primary school, Beer, Bulbs, Biscuits and Bacardi Breezers) is the cripple ghetto they appear to be describing here. "Eleven hours without power is a long time but especially for a disabled community." Disabled Community. I can’t count the number of times ouch forum contributors have said β€˜there is no such thing as the disabled community.’ And yet here we appear to have it, alive and thriving and in the Thames Valley. Where else? You can probably get the Bristol train from Paddington. And then a bus. Bring a picnic. Hoists! Stairlifts! Commodes! Osteoporosis! Fun for all the family.

The article moves on to some good points from Reading West MP Martin Salter about the relative, restrictive and, as we see here, painful effects of disabled people losing their power supply. He also says we are unable to eat takeaways, or something. Martin, my waistline begs to differ.

The post title refers to a song by Canadian band Arcade Fire about a power cut, just so you know.