ΒιΆΉΤΌΕΔ

I like to buy stuff; shiny stuff, indulgent stuff, deeply unnecessary stuff, occasionally useful stuff, all of it good. Yesterday I ventured into town having heard that a boxset of a US TV series involving a British comedian pretending to be an American cripple was on sale at a considerably discounted price. I’ll give you a clue, it rhymes with Mouse. Less than a year ago if you’d asked me which of Laurie and Fry was disabled I would have said β€œWhy, it’s my second favourite manic depressive in the whole wide world, Stephen Fry.” It still is. Hugh Laurie, as his character Dr House, is only pretending. Even in my walking days I was never one for the straightforward limp, limping was accompanied by flailing arms and the inability to stop. Hence I am not the one to comment on the authenticity of Laurie’s chosen brand of crippledness, although I would like to know how the hell he can ride a motorbike. Answers in the comments section please. I would be one of those women simpering to Heat magazine that I had a β€˜weird crush’ on House but then I would have to admit that crush actually started when I saw him in Blackadder when I was 11. And that just ain’t right. Nor is it remotely to do with disability. I digress…

I’ve recently borrowed my boyfriend’s old powerchair, it is several leagues above my own. Never have I spent an impulsive shopping trip gliding so smoothly over the cobbles, paving stones, tram lines and loitering Goths. But steering through a busy shopping street still requires concentration, whatever your turning circle.

On my way back to the bus station I realised I had to lower my seat. Knowing that if I stopped dead I risked some innocent soul crashing into me, possibly a goth with many delicate peircings, I had to pick my spot. A stall selling scarves was one possibility, but what if he thought I wanted to buy a scarf? I don’t want a scarf. Or do I? I might, I didn’t really like the shape of my neck that day. After much deliberation I stopped, lowered the seat and eventually emerged from the bus station subway, bewildered and scarf-less. Worse was to come, because when I go to the bus station it’s mostly because I want to catch a bus. In a wheelchair I had driven for less than a week. The bus company could combat sexism and disablism combined if they would just design a wheelchair space that was a. easy to steer into b. therefore didn’t invite quite so many β€˜woman driver’ jokes. I know I should be happy accessible buses exist at all. For a freakishly long time I was, I still get the adrenaline rush and the beaming smile to this day, but that could just be exhaust fumes. But as it was, on this bus I got the back wheel caught on the helpfully placed yellow pole, nearly crippling an old woman wearing a headscarf and a terrified expression. If I'd hit her she could always get tips from Hugh Laurie. Like I said, it’s all about concentration.