Craic On

When Grace Jones slapped Russell Harty she created one of TVs' iconic moments. Whatever you think of her response to her host turning his back on her, she did it with a very good hair cut. I know this because Trevor Sorbi cut her hair. It’s not that I know Trevor, but I know a man who does. He’s the man who cuts my hair.  For fifty years I’d been buying bad hair cuts from hairdressers the length and breadth of the land. After we’d settled the question of what my boyfriend did for a living and where I was going on my holidays, the conversation always followed the same turn. My hair was very hard to cut. “It’s because it’s all one colour”, they said.  So it was my fault. A few of my hair cutting foes took me by surprise by asking how I got my roots that colour. “It’s all Gods work,” I’d usually reply, my blond hair being intimately connected with my lack of sight. “I’m a natural blond,” I’d boast.  A hairdresser who can’t tell a natural blond at thirty centimetres doesn’t inspire confidence. As these increa

In my favourite shop the retail assistants wear luminous yellow jackets which makes them easy to spot as they weave their way in and out of piles of brown furniture. Over the years I have bought wardrobes, bellows, semi precious bunches of stone grapes, lead glasses and assorted cutlery. I am able to exercise little self control except in the matter of retail assistant number one who recently asked me what was in the bag I was carrying. “Trainers” I declared. “I’m going to go running and get fit.” “You look pretty fit to me,” number one assistant said.  “I reckon you’re built for comfort as well as speed.”. Overlooking the obvious forwardness of this observation, the truth of the matter is that I might not be getting any younger or any thinner but have developed an ambition to run an uninterrupted mile. Then I am stopping before I do myself an injury. Experience suggests that if I want to avoid running into things I will need a guide. The son, who is a serious marathon runner, is right.  He says the

Middle age can be a productive time in a woman’s life. Who knows what the meaning of productive is. Is being productive the same as being busy? No. Is being creative the same as being productive? I hope so. I feel in a creative phase. Doing new things mean learning new skills, so I’ve been scouring the internet to see what learning opportunities there might be for me to develop some of those skills. I settled on a course but before I signed up, I thought I had better give the Well Loved Institution, hosting the course, a call to check that learning materials would be accessible. A person who sounded as if she was still in bed asked if she could help me. Her tone reassured that what she really meant was “Yeah. What do you want idiot? You’re disturbing me.” I explained that before signing on the dotted line, I wanted to check on the arrangement for accessible course materials because I am registered blind. There was a bit of argy bargy on where to find the course code she needed before she could answer th

“Coleette” was showing at the flicks, so a couple of friends and I found ourselves navigating our way around an enormous windswept rooftop car park in a tiny car. The cinemas beckoned. At the ticket office an adolescent made me an offer like no offer I have ever been made before. “Would you like to make use of the audio description facility that is free?” I don’t know why it has never occurred to me to try this before.  Imagine, you can go to the cinema and just as you might have naturally leant into the ear of your friend and asked what’s happening, a voice pipes up in your own ear “Missey is bearing down on Collette in an act of passion”. “All you have to do is put them on and the description will automatically start when the film starts,” said the youth.”  The excitement mounted. Nothing happened, because, the Youth had not switched the headset on and we were probably not the first people who couldn’t work it out as we fumbled about in the dark.  I leant into ask my friend what was happening.  “It

The Sceptic Tank, (slang for Yank, as in a person who hails from North America) told me that on a recent taxi journey her driver asked her about her blindness.  Her philosophy is to always engage as she’s educating the world about living with sight loss, one taxi driver at a time.  She set out the situation of the genetic time bomb, programmed to go off and trigger blindness just when you’ve bought a new car, and then tied it all up neatly in the richness of her life which is why she is not complaining.  The taxi driver suggested to her that if she put her faith in God, she would be cured. Sceptic Tank suddenly felt the need to pick up her emails and this would necessitate earphones. She excused herself from the conversation. The awkwardness was palpable. They both knew it. No doubt in an effort to relieve the tension, the taxi driver asked if she would mind if he put on the radio. She didn’t, so he did. Christian rock was not a genre Sceptic Tank was familiar with so when the tune of something that sounde

I met the Builder coming up the road with his dog. He was chuckling to himself and told me that he had just seen a very funny incident. He said he wasn’t sure if it was politically correct to laugh at something to do with blindness but he couldn’t help himself. I asked him if it was a blind person or a sighted person who came off worst out of this story. “The sighted one,” he said. “Go for it,” I reassured. He was walking his dog when he spotted a blind man with his guide dog waiting to cross the road. The Builders’ dog began to pull, so he reigned in the dog in the hope of avoiding a diplomatic incident. As he got closer he noticed that a car had stopped and was flashing its lights to indicate to the blind man that he could cross the road. When nothing happened the driver started tooting his horn. Still nothing happened so he revved his engine while continuing to toot his horn and flash his lights. Still nothing happened.  He gave up and put his foot down, disappearing in a trail of exhaust fumes. T

Only very recently did I take my first tentative steps into the world of social media. It’s a mine field. It’s like the girl with the curl. When it’s good it’s very very good and when it’s bad it’s horrid. I know plenty of people with no sight who navigate the digital world with aplomb. I am not one of them.  I considered going on a course in order to develop my skills to a level of #Twitter and #Facebook self sufficiency. Classes, it turns out, are not readily accessible if you can’t see much. So, I did the thing that anyone would do. I turned to #Google. #YouTube. Video tutorials are the perfect format for anyone who can’t see much. Clever old me! I had to check what I click on to access #Google.  It’s a browser.  I’ve just changed mine. I used my browser to see if I could find an on line tutorial on how to invite my friends to join me on #Facebook. The choices were almost limitless.  #YouTube came up trumps.  I plumped for one. I had to sit through five minutes of an oriental dance troop but then the

His suspicions aroused by the large quantity of bleach nestled behind my loo, my friend Dan asked me if I was planning to make a bomb.  I was not, but it got me thinking about the reason why and how I approach my rare trips to the supermarket. The thing about shopping, if you can’t see, is that nothing is done on spec (excuse the word play) because you are going to have to carry it home. A Buy One Get One Free offer is all very well, but what if it’s a forty-minute wait for a cab or you end up having to walk? At the supermarket, I’m the woman with the enormous trolley stacked high with loo roll, dishwasher salt and laundry soap. While I might shop like a polygamist with two dozen children at home, I’m simply taking advantage of some nice person who has offered me a lift to the supermarket and who has the space to spare in their car, for me to cram it with stuff that I don’t want to have to carry on my back because it’s heavy. If I’m not to queer my pitch with my host driver, by keeping them waiting,

My neighbour was kind enough to drive me to #Heathrow terminal five. It rose out of the Hounslow ground like the architectural jewel of an emerging state, and proved equally hard to navigate our way into. Once there, it gleamed even brighter than the orange façade of #Luton airport departure terminal. The unprepared traveller could be blinded in the reflection of all that glass and chrome. You need dark glasses to enter there. How to work out where the walls, stairs and floors began and ended in all that reflected glory turned out to be quite a challenge. Hardly had I had time to get my cane out when the much trumpeted #British Airways customer service swung into action. An explanation of my predicament was met with an equally firm explanation that the worlds favourite airline no longer offered assistance. Politely but firmly, I offered up the best challenge I could for six in the morning. “I can give you directions to the gates”. Was the reply. That would have to do for now. “Certainly Madam, they’re over

The God Daughter, has the most phenomenal finger nails I have ever seen. They are long and polished and sometimes bejewelled. I wonder how it is possible to be a working Mother with these finger nails. The God Daughter is a tour de force and has probably taught her children the importance of being able to deliver a good manicure as part of their preparation for pre-school. I confess that I am jealous of the God Daughter when it comes to finger nails. I long for the well manicured hand like those of my friends who are inclined, and able, to do this for themselves. I am not organised enough to book a manicure and have an in built aversion to discussions about where I am going on my holidays, or where I have been on my holidays or whether or not I was waxed for my holiday or want to book to have my hair ripped out by the roots as part of the preparation for going on holiday. I am unsure what my hands look like in comparison to the gold standard of the well manicured hand and suspect that not everyone ha

Everyone has a drawer of dud gifts for recycling. Don’t they? In my drawer are quite a few crystal angels with the power to heal – allegedly.  These were given by people who like to knit their own mung beans.  There is a selection of magnifying glasses I don’t know what to do with.  Some nice people thought of me, while rummaging through the 50% off section, and assumed that another magnifier would be a fun thing to own.  There are also quite a few candles. It’s not that I’m a candle killjoy.  It’s just that there are things in life that I don’t like.  Top of my list is rice pudding.  Milk puddings are the food of the devil.  If you have cataracts the naked flame flickering away in front of you has all the seductive powers of an ocular migraine and is the work of the devils’ assistant.  I know there are people that love candles but I’ve noticed that the people who gift them don’t have their houses stuffed with them. I’ve never popped over to anyone’s for a drink to find the house entirely illuminated

I have an inherent fear of snakes. Even the most innocuous of grass snakes assumes the status of an anaconda in my imagination. As a child, I sought out the privacy of a large bush, only to discover that I had picked the very spot favoured by adders. I don’t know who was more surprised, the adders or me. It’s a testament to youthful speed and agility that I lived to tell the tale. As a student I was once enjoying a moment of privacy in our shared house bathroom when I began to suspect I could have overdone things. The lino appeared to be moving. There was something on my foot. While I could not be certain, I was taking no chances and the sequence of events went; departure from bathroom and house followed by the securing of clothes. It turned out to be a garter snake that I had unknowingly shared several nights in front of the telly with. No one had said a word. I never went back. On an elephant ride through the rain forest in Thailand, the Mahout thought it would be amusing to give us a close up view

A conversation about unemployment rates amongst disabled people of working age reminded me, not only how lucky I have been, but of the sheer lunacy of prejudice. If it weren’t quite so serious it would be funny. My teenage ambition was to be a criminal defence barrister. I was not an idiot. I’d seen #Crown Court and what’s more I came from a family of lawyers and already had the wig. My aspiration was met with two questions: “How much do you weigh?” and “Have you considered basket weaving?” As careers interviews go it was not an unqualified success, even by 1970s standards. My teacher lit a cigar and picked up a copy of Playboy. The interview was over. That was the first and last time I got careers advice. It was the first hint that the world of work may not be as eager to receive me as I was to embrace it. I would have to wing it. My Grandmother was vocal on the subject of my future: I would have to get a job because “no man will ever marry her,” on account of perpetuating the defective gene, and my

Weirdly, I quite like walking uphill. There is no denying that age, expanding girth and lack of fitness make this more of a challenge than for the younger, thinner and fitter, but as my friend, The Big Cheese, would say, “none of us are getting any younger or any thinner”. Downhill walking has had its day. After the rib cracking incident I’m for the climb up and working up a good sweat. There is no better place on earth to do that than The Cinque Terra (Five Villages) on the north west Italian coast. If you can do it in thirty degrees of heat, surrounded by hoards of tourists running past you like goats, you could grab yourself a little bit of heaven. As leg stretches go, it can be a challenge because the unmatched beauty of the coastal path is well and truly matched by the gradient of the ascent itself, of which there is a lot, not to mention the precarious nature of the ground under foot, which I can’t help but mention. This is not a stroll for the half hearted walker but the determined hiker. With

My hosts were in their usual good form. The food was excellent. The wine was flowing and the slow gin homemade. The conversation was about the local fishmonger and the aspirations of young adult children, holidays taken and the long awaited driverless car. How the world has changed since we were young. As a slave to pubic transport timetables and as someone who never goes anywhere without a pack on my back, a bag in my hand, or both, the driverless car offers a seductive freedom of movement that people with sight impairments can only dream of. Imagine being able to go wherever you like, whenever you chose and not having to carry your worldly goods on your back or ask for a lift or plan ahead. “Sign me up,” There was general incredulity that I could not see enough to drive, although I was not the only non-driver at the table. In a seamless manoeuvre, a conversation unfolded in which my dining companions articulated their inner most fears of what would happen if they went blind. I seemed to be invisibl

I like to think I am a woman in my prime. The evidence does not necessarily support this position. There are those that think I have the technology skills of an Edwardian, retaining something of a fondness for pen and paper. I hanker after #Basildon Bond and the letter. That makes me very old and not at all in my prime. Technology is supposed to be a liberation; enabling my computer to speak text and enlarge font at the touch of a button, so that blind and partially sighted people can participate in the world of work, and reading for pleasure, and lets not forget social media and flirting. I am not a reliable user of technology. Yesterday I inadvertently recorded a chunk of “The Bottom Line”, as a text message, and then accidentally sent it to my son. “Are you drunk?” was the reply. At least he didn’t ask if I was senile. I have social media and the trouble begins once I start to try to use it on my phone. It’s super easy to #tweet a copy of your latest utility bill. Luckily I have few followers. I a

I was in a pizza restaurant dithering over what to chose. “My God,” said my newest colleague. “Your eye sight is terrible. You should go to Pakistan and get that fixed. My wife had terrible sight. Not that bad, but she really did have trouble. She went to Pakistan and got it sorted. She can see fine now.” I said that it wasn’t an operable thing and that I had made my peace with it a long time ago. He leant in and wagging his finger at me said, “Have you been to Pakistan?” I said I hadn’t. “Well there you are then. If you haven’t been to Pakistan how do you know?” I explained that I was in no doubt that it wasn’t operable. “But you’ve never been to Pakistan,” he said leaning back in his chair and throwing the menu down on the table in a kind of “I rest my case” gesture. “If you were serious about it, you’d have been,” he said, shaking his head and frowning. “I’m not,” I said and that was the end of that. People have interesting ideas about what they feel able to comment on: On holiday in Thailan

There are lots of apples falling off the tree in next doors garden. There is an abundance of windfalls, in my garden, that the local wildlife like to avail themselves of. In my efforts to deter the marauding intruders with fur, tails and long yellow teeth, I have just been out to pick up the rotten fruit and put them out for tomorrows compost collection. I have a little trick to keep the side gate propped open while I nip out to the compost bag. It has never failed me. It has never failed me until today. I turned around, from the compost bag, in time to see the gate slam. Three years ago, I was burgled. In my efforts to deter marauding intruders of the two-legged variety, I fitted a gate with a security lock that is operated by a key pad. It was not enough to keep my eighty-year-old uncle the monk from breaking and entering but it has just proved sufficient to the task of keeping me out of my own garden. Finding myself locked out, I had to dredge up the code from the depths of my extremely addled bra

Being a fugitive from justice is a stressful experience. I know, because I experienced this. I experienced it briefly, just for a nano-second, in the REM dream state that most of us experience just before we wake up. My crime? I was caught on camera driving down a North American highway. I was over the speed limit by one mile an hour and caught without a licence. For this, I now faced extradition and a life in a penal colony. On the up side, it was not likely to be a long life under these circumstances. While I waited for my good fortune, in having woken up, to sink in, there was tea. I confess to having a bit of a green eye when it comes to driving. It used to be, that as my peers got wheels, I got more and more frustrated at the limits that not being able to drive apparently placed on me. What I know now, but I didn’t know then, was that we all exercise our freedoms differently and pay for our freedoms in different ways. Sometimes you have to ask for what you need. Sometimes you have to queue for it,

I love technology: I love the oven, the kettle, the toaster. I loved the TV I grew up with. That’s the one that had an enormous “V” shaped areal that extended out of the top and sat on four screw in legs. It had a button for turning it on and off and a dial that could be set to three locations: BBC1, BBC2 and ITV. The only time we ever spoke to it, (and here I use the term loosely) was when the tube blew up and it had to be taken away for repairs. I never speak to my desktop, tablet or telephone in the tone we spoke to the telly the day the tube expired. I use slow and measured tones in order that there should be no misunderstanding between us. I pride myself on having articulatory agility, which as every drama student knows, is a desirable ability. Not desirable enough for the technology that I now routinely speak to, which is petulant, defiant and doesn’t listen. The intuitive claims of manufacturers are either untrue or I am lacking in intuition. Having worked out how to operate the dictation command