Craic On

In a late night dash for home, it occurred to me that there was no milk in the fridge and so a short detour was called for. A pint of milk for the necessity of morning tea would surely be possible, and it was. At the till, while I waited for someone to take my money, I thought I’d use the time productively and started fumbling in my bag for the trusty monocular. I was just putting it round my neck when the cashier pitched up. “Are you going bird watching?” he asked, pointing at the monocular. “Oh, no, buses,” I mumbled. “Because I don’t know if you’ve noticed but it’s dark outside. You wont’ see any birds at this time of night.” “I’m not a twitcher.” I thought that would knock this conversation on the head. “A bird watcher then. There are no birds now. It’s dark outside. That’s what I’m saying.” “No. I’m definitely not a bird watcher. If I was looking for birds I’d probably have binoculars. That’s like this only two stuck together, one for each eye. This is what I use to see if there is a

I love a party. I love an elegant pair of shoes, but not enough to wear them for longer than I have to. Having a back up pair of trainers under a table is a good idea. It’s not the end of the world if it’s a good party and someone starts to clear the room before you are ready to leave and they shout out, “Anyone want to claim these trainers?” I’m unbashful. “They’re mine.” I love a really good party dress too, but not enough to wear it for longer than I absolutely have to. That’s because a really good party dress is invariably backed up by supportive underwear that you can’t just chuck under a table if it starts to get a little uncomfortable. Imagine that. “Anyone want to claim a pair of #Bridget Jones?”  Not me. With my trainers safely hidden under a table and my impossibly large pants safely hidden under my dress I sallied forth to party. It’s part of the life of a #Chair of Trustees; sturdy attire and enquiring conversation, never forgetting to seize the moment to make a pitch for your cause. L

The mesh laundry bag is making a come back. It’s a much under valued item that will preserve my clothes from the ferocity of the spin cycle on my elderly washing machine. I hope never to hear again, ” Did you know there’s a hole in that?” I will never hear myself say again, “Obviously not or I wouldn’t be wearing it. My first line of defence is a series of raised dots stuck on the front of the washing machine, so I know which cycle is where. I have never worked out the number of revolutions in the various spin options though. The choices are shown on a tiny screen I can’t see so I chose to ignore. I think I might have got my 600s and my 900s muddled up. I suspect the holes in my T-shirts and trailing threads on my pants are a consequence of excess revolutions. If I’d taken the kind of robust approach in asking for help with the sticky dots and the impenetrably small screen on the washing machine, as I did in #Robert Dyas, in asking for service, I might not have trashed my wardrobe. Having long sin

The most I have ever grown is a single radish sometime in the seventies.  My Dad used to give me runner bean and the odd courgette plant. Sometimes they thrived and sometimes they died. More accurately, I killed them. I’m feeling pretty smug as I’ve grown much of my lawn from seed this year, although the Right Hand neighbour gently pointed out that the lawn is full of all kinds of things that don’t appear to be grass. They’re green so it all the same to me. I can’t tell. I planted a crab apple tree and bought a packet of courgette seeds and two packets of runner bean seeds.  Everything you ever wanted to know about growing veg is on YouTube. I know because I have spent an indecent amount of time watching it. I could have done with more close up shots because even after careful viewing I have no idea what they looked like. Also, a description of what plants feel like what to touch would be helpful. It takes seconds to plant a seed and about two weeks for the first green shoots to appear. I thought I h

A.A. Milne might have sat down half way down the stairs, but he never did it because he couldn’t wait another second to see what had popped up on his mobile phone. I have noticed that the folk who have adopted this practice are neither in #London Underground or in the town. They are not at the bottom. They are not in the top. They are standing half way up the exit staircase. They are right in the way. To the desperate, who cannot help but stop on their way out of a #tube station to check their phones, I can only assume that like the poem, “All sorts of funny thoughts” run round their heads. Considering the inconvenience, they cause to even the most vigilant commuter let alone those of us whose eyes are dim and cannot see, it had better be more than a message informing them it’s beans for tea. Heaven forfend that I should discourage anyone from using up the leftovers, but “there is a chicken curry in the fridge with your name on it,” is not a good enough reason to clog up #tube station exits during rush

Coming out on to the street, the heat hit me.  A day of brainstorming had taken its toll. No matter how good the air conditioning and how sweet the cake, there is nothing like a good blast of hot air after a long day of trying not to disgrace yourself, to make you feel the strain. Far fetched as it sounds, in thirty degrees of heat, I needed to be in Upper Street before 6.30, to beat the deadline for the winter jumper I had reserved. #Bank Station had come to a standstill and as people piled in behind me, the temperature began to rise in more ways than one. I still had time to make it, but after a torturous wait, I gave up and shuffled my way through the crowds and back into the relative cool of a scorching evening. That jumper would wait for no woman. I needed a taxi. This was a job for the cane. This was no ordinary jumper. It was just the right shade of green and it’s the quest for colour that lead me to spend the next twenty minutes, standing on the side of the road, cane in one hand, the other a

Highways England have written to me as part of a consultation about a proposed Motorway junction improvement scheme. That is to say, the letter began “Dear Resident”, so I don’t imagine they will be crying into their tea when they don’t hear back from me. Not having a car seems a belief too far for some people. How can anyone live without one? “I don’t believe you don’t have one,” said the woman sitting next to me. “I’m a devotee of the bus,” I explained with the usual blah blah qualifier about not being about to blah blah. Her objections were two fold: the inconvenience of public transport, the inconvenience of the public. I take her point on both counts but all life is on the bus and mine is the richer for it. Twenty years ago I was sitting on the bus minding my own business when the woman sitting next to me leant over and asked, “are you Anna?” She was the Mother of a long lost school friend. I phoned her. We caught up. “Actually, I won’t take your number as I’ve got enough friends,” she

The Best Friend and I have just made a pilgrimage to Edinburgh. Our idea of a good time is to spend three days sweating it out in a Scottish dungeon along with a hundred or so other people, all perspiring away in slightly damp pack-a-macs. We have the aroma or damp dogs in search of a good laugh. If Best Friend were a damp dog, she would definitely opt to be a yellow Labrador. It’s so crowded at the #Edinburgh festival this year. We schlep from venue to venue on our well planned mission for humour; she a pace in front of me, me with my hand on her shoulder, weaving our way through the throngs of other people who have also taken on the aroma of wet dogs just for laughs. “Good dog” I say as she stops to narrate the sights. Before we are in The Royal Mile looking for Winalot, I hear a voice I recognise. “Is that The Tech?” I put out there. “Who’s that?” comes the reply from the man next to me. Then he recognises the voice. “OH. Hello,” he says. We stop for a chat and a catch up. The sights may be won

There’s been a great thread on #Twitter about pointless #Braille. Can there be such a thing? Yes, but should the question be; in the digital age is there any point to Braille? Put it another way, is there any point to literacy? Studies show that if you are blind and a Braille reader, you are more likely to achieve academically and find and keep employment as compared to people who rely solely on voice synthesizers. Imagine a world in which no one learnt to read and write. How would anyone be able to get from “A” to “B”, read the critical instruction on the back of a packet to “keep out of the reach of children” or text one’s beloved under the table during a “all phones off” meeting of the board? It’s the same with Braille. Braille delivers literacy in a way which the synthetic voice can never do. It teaches grammar and syntax and all that other good stuff. It’s the note on the back of a packet that means you don’t mistake pain killers for laxatives. Just like learning to read and write, Braille opens

Having spent the better part of my premenopausal life avoiding pregnancy, I have spent the entirety of post menopausal life “egging” the son on to embrace reproduction. My enquiry into his plans for parenthood have not always been met with a ready enthusiasm to discuss the subject with me, his Mother. We developed a ritual exchange on the subject. “Don’t be selfish. Think of me.” “Mother, you are the last person I am thinking about.” News that the DiL was in labour came in a group whatsapp message. Regular updates followed. Then as day one drifted into day two and my nerves began to jangle, I went in search of distraction, and because deep down I am a shallow person, I went shoe shopping. If you are living through the protracted childbirth of people you have invested a future in, and can’t find anyone who is prepared to be a captive audience to your anxiety and your excitement, and especially if you can’t see much, shopping provides the ideal alternative. It is not an undertaking to be done alone.

As the witching hour broke, I began to roam about the house in the dark, trying not to make a noise less the dog barked, the household awoke and the neighbours cursed me. Then it dawned on me that I was no longer in possession of a phone. The phone was lying face down in the road and beyond the prospect of a replacement screen. Thus began a week of red faced trips to the #Apple store. The red face was in part because of my own idiocy in dropping my phone and not noticing, then having to peel its shattered remains out of a plastic bag to give an account of myself. The redder face was the rage of being held in the grip of #Apple power. #Apple does not seem to me, to serve, but to administer its customers. With an annual budget bigger than some national economies, it’s well placed to behave like the Department of Stealth and Total Obscurity. It demands compliance. After the interminable wait, I recounted the manner of death of my phone. A replacement quote was emailed. The insurance agreed to pay.  I ph

My friend, the Dynamo, and I are firmly of the belief that the car boot sale provides the optimum purchasing opportunity for plants. Lovingly grown by amateurs, selling off their excess Cosmos cheap, it’s a joy to behold. All of this can be washed down with a disgusting cup of tea, sitting on a plastic chair in a car park. My personal car boot joy is dependant on being whisked to the car boot in someone else’s car, in order not to have to trudge home with arms weighed down by bags of potting compost and squashed plants. My friends are remarkably obliging in this respect; the Dynamo, Mr Dynamo and their son Dynamite, amongst them. After this weeks’ expedition, the Dynamo offered me a lift home, via #Homebase where she had a pressing appointment with some sticky back plastic. #Homebase was not much of a draw for the rest of us, not even with sticky back plastic on offer, so Mr Dynamo, Dynamite and I, elected to wait in the car. Adult chit chat did for Dynamite, who turned the volume up on his play list

Flying has been a feature of my life. I cannot begin to calculate how many flights I have been on. Not all of them have begun in Luton.  There is one flight that could be described as a short haul flight that has turned into the longest haul flight in the history of flight. You might say it is a flight with teeth. If the Wright brothers could establish the principle of man and machine acting in perfect unity, how hard could it be for one small girl, propelled by billowing folds of only a brush nylon nighty, to also achieve flight? Take off went according to plan. Lack of depth perception meant that a wall I thought was somewhere over there, was in fact now in contact with my face and my days of independent flight had come to an undistinguished end. After my ten-year-old friends had picked themselves up off the ground and before they had stopped laughing, I retired wounded and humiliated to nurse my bleeding mouth. If only I had seen that wall. Pound for pound, that short flight has turned out to b

I went to have a cuppa with my friend The Big Cheese. He’s always late so being punctual gave me ample time to navigate the “patrons only” use of the loo rule, before I became a patron. The deal is that there is a code on your till receipt that is the code for the loo. I didn’t yet have a till receipt and was reluctant to stake my place at a table with my coat, just in case someone my size fancied that coat as much as me. So, at the counter I didn’t look much like a serious prospect but more of a chancer. Not to worry, the code, I was informed, was stuck to the door. The code was indeed stuck to the door, just above the keypad. Both were impenetrable. Back to the counter, still wearing my coat. I explained my predicament. It gets dull after a while, to have to keep saying that you cannot see to do such and such and need a spot of help. The incredulous server looked puzzled. “You can see. The code is on the door,” she said. “I know it’s on the door,” I laboured while crossing my legs. “I just can’t re

I’ve been to Gateshead, where despite the chill winds, skirts are still high. Northern women are tough, resilient to the elements but not without a soft side. The receptionist at check-in asked me to verify my details on the bit of card they always hand you. I said that I’d be grateful if she could read it to me. She asked me if I needed my glasses. I said I didn’t as they wouldn’t help, but if she could read the card to me that would definitely do the trick. She leant over the counter and read my address to me in hushed tones, which was thoughtful given that the assembled throng was milling about at close quarters. Check in complete, she said, ” I hope you don’t mind me asking. Are you partially sighted or blind?” I explained that I can see but I’m registered blind. She said it was incredible because I was looking right at her. I said it was all in the training. “How sad,” she said and leant over the desk and squeezed my hand.” Never mind, we are here now and we’ll look after you.” Resisting the

My garden shed has been gently dissolving into the ground for some time now. In every cost there is an opportunity. Having sat down with the Right Hand Neighbour to consider our shed options, I settled on a modest affair just right to stuff old ironing boards in. Yvonne (not her real name) adjusted her head set because she was having a bit of trouble hearing what I was saying but we got there in the end. It was time to part with the long number on the front of my credit card. Yvonne instructed me to punch the number into my keypad. I said I’d rather tell her the number as I would find it tricky blah blah because blah blah.  The previously composed Yvonne exploded. “You cannot speak the number. It’s GDPR. It’s the law.” She was incandescent. “If you can’t see an exception…” “It’s the law’, she bellowed. “It’s illegal for you to tell me your card number.” She was very loud. “I am absolutely certain it’s not…” “And I’m telling you it is. You have to punch it in to your keypad,” she barked. I

Nowadays it’s not uncommon to have a job that is part of the grand scheme of your career as well as a job on the side, that might be a way to make money or it’s just about something you like doing. I met a man whose main business was shady nightclubs and whose side hussle was philosophy discussions in the pub. I’m not sure how much pub goers were willing to pay for philosophy. I thought that was the point of the pub. Everyone’s a philosophers and you get the benefit of their views for free. My friend the Artists’ side hussle is wedding bunting. She is not short on customers. Like plumbers, you can never have enough bunting. My friend, the Dynamo, and I have been thinking about a side hussle. This has involved a couple of bottles of wine, a pot of tea and a lot of up and down to throw another log on the fire. Stoking the fire did not inflame our imaginations and we are none the wiser but we might see if a good dinner can move things forward. If all else fails, I’m considering a move into crime. Like a

Now I’m alert to the risks that public parks present me with: stray dogs with large teeth that will “hound” you for your lunch or even a takeaway tea, small children on scooters who can neither swerve nor break, teenagers on bicycles taking a short cut at top speed, joggers, beggars, hawkers and pick pockets. To the ever expanding list of hazards I can crash into, trip over or be robbed blind by, add the game of “boules”. Anyone labouring under the illusion that boules is just bowls with a French spelling, had better think again. Boules is no sedate game, played in the warmth of a continental evening in areas reserved for old men to meet and chat about the important matters of the day, while nonchalantly chewing tobacco and casually rolling a wooden ball about. Oh no. Boules is a fiercely competitive game in which metal balls are liberally hurled about like cannon balls. Players aren’t fussy. They’ll play it anywhere. For a good impromptu game, the intersection of pathways in public parks provide just t

I discovered I might be wearing the wrong reading glasses.  I might have been wearing the wrong prescription for more than a decade.  I’ve been using glasses that are designed for reading a book. I have long since stopped reading books. I read my computer screen. Wearing the wrong prescription is all the rage: My chum The Doctor has been wearing her contact lenses the wrong way round. She’s been wearing the lens for distance in the eye she uses for near vision and the lens for near vision in the eye she uses for distance vision. “What idiots” she thought, when her monthly disposable lenses started to arrive with labels on them saying “L” and “R”. It took her a year to get round to going to see her optician to explain that she thought her sight had got worse. She had to sit through the indignity of being told she was wearing her lenses in the wrong eyes. It wasn’t her sight that was the problem.  It’s a good job she’s not a surgeon. What works best when the optician loads different lenses into the imposs

The Plumber was moaning about the cost of running a car. I told him that this was something outside my experience. He told me that his Father, who is registered blind, has three cars.  What is it that makes people who can’t see much, or even anything at all, want to own a car? The Plumbers Father has a people carrier that his wife drives him around in, in the endless rounds of house clearing, trips to the supermarket and dog walking.  Then there is a little natty number that she nips in and out of traffic in, that’s low to the ground and easy to park. He likes the feedback that being so low on the road gives him. It reminds him of his youth. Then there is the sports car, top down wind in his hair job. Being a passenger is no bar to enjoying a bit of speed. A friend of mine, who I shall not name as I want to protect my sources, drove himself to the optician to get his diagnosis of legal blindness. True, he could still see something, but not enough to drive. It didn’t stop him from driving himself home or