Craic On

I set off from Clapham to catch the train to Lancaster where my friend, the Author, would meet me. She would then drive to her house in Clapham. That’s Clapham Yorkshire, from where we would stride out for some good bracing walks, a thing we both love to do. Turns out that I’d been sold the wrong tickets again, and the train that I’d asked for, and confirmed, my seats reservations on, was not the train I expected. That train had left an hour ago. Just to compound matters my breakfast was now lying on the concourse of Euston station due to an unsecured drinks lid. All of this was rectified by a swift repeat purchase. I am amazed by how fast I can move in the face of missing breakfast. It turns out that there are two exits at Lancaster station. The Author was waiting at one and I was outside the other one, enjoying the taxi rank banter, when our texts crossed. She would come and find me. The time was not wasted. In my drive to improve my core stability, because diminishing sight tends to challenge balance

My picky friends have pointed out that this blog is full of idiosyncratic spelling mistakes. I plead visual impairment! Early attempts at reading were centred around the adventures of Peter and Jane who rolled around in the front seat of the family car, chased moving buses and took to an inflatable raft in only their pants. The more I read the better it got. By the time I was becoming an independent reader the expanding cast of characters were dipping their fingers in boiling water, setting fires and testing for an electrical current with their tongues. I can’t pretend to have ever given much thought to the individual components of words. Sight impairment meant that it was impossible to know, from looking, how many “m”s were in “tomorrow” and whether “silly” had one “l” of two. They all merged into one as far as I could see. No one ever bothered to teach me the rules because no one could imagine that I really couldn’t see what I was reading and I never bothered to tell them. What I, and many others l

An old family friend left a message on my answer machine that went something along the lines of; ” I’ve been to look at your old school…it really is a super retirement complex now … they have everything there…you wouldn’t have to worry about not being able to see….they’ll look after you….I’ve given your number to the sales office and Vicki is going to call you…I’ve told her you can’t see much…there will be lots of people who have problems like yours so you won’t be alone…they even have a mini bus if you wanted to go to the town… honestly everything is there…I don’t think you’d ever need to leave….I’m 86 and it wouldn’t do for me but you’re 55 and I thought it would be perfect for you.” As my jaw slumped, a tightening knot in my stomach reminded me that life is short. It was 10am and although I had been awake since 5am, because I am 55 now, I was still in bed. I had better get up. I’ve run a business, raised the Fabulous Son, travelled, run a house, have a social life and friends. I am still actively con

Sometimes I feel like a dysfunctional travel correspondent. My tales always seem to involve the extraordinary. I’ve been abandoned on aeroplanes, been refused assistance at train stations and once threatened with arrest for trying to buy a ticket at journeys end because I couldn’t operate the ticket machine at the start of my journey. My reply: “Fine, while you’re calling the police I’ll call the Daily Mail”. My tactic at railway stations is to go to the ticket office and if the queue is likely to take longer than fifteen minutes look for a customer service rep to operate the ticket machine for me. It’s not failsafe. I did this at Liverpool Street station and ended up with a ticket that cost more than double the usual cost. Time was marching on so other than joining the queue, that I probably didn’t have enough water to sustain me through, I’d have to swallow the cost and get on the train. Two revenue inspectors sat next to me so I quizzed them: The ticket machine was not set up to sell me the ticket

There is something cringingly uncomfortable about making your mistakes in public: I have a long and distinguished experience of being the subject of public amusement. It’s not a comfortable place to be. Not looking or behaving like other people’s assumptions, of how I should look or behave, has landed me in some testing situations. Getting off a bus one day, the door opened next to a concrete bollard that was invisible against the pavement. The bus driver didn’t believe I had a sight impairment so thought he would put his theory to the test with a spot of strategic parking. Pivotting on a bollard is surprisingly painful. It’s also extremely funny to the casual onlooker in a kind of slapstick way. The queue of people waiting to get on the bus couldn’t help themselves. They laughed until they cried while I dangled over the top of the bollard with a pain in my stomach like I’d just been punched. On a trip to the cinema I elected to cross at the zebra crossing just outside the cinema. When I got there a van

I had lunch with a friend in an Italian place in Oxford Circus. We ate a good lunch and laughed a lot. As my friend got up to leave he asked me if I needed a hand with anything before he left. I didn’t but would guard his goods while he nipped to the gents. Needless to say, his absence made me reflect on parental advice. “Always go before you leave”. Signage can be a challenge for anyone faced with the decision about which door to pick. I can never remember if the triangle points up for a woman or what the symbol is for male or female. Then there are the signs that are in relief and the same colour as the door. How do you know if you are about to enter into another country? For any woman who has ever been caught short, and found themselves compelled to make a dash for the only available loo, there is one sure way to know if you are in the right place. The sniff test. Undeterred by not being able to read the signs and work out which was the men’s and which the women’s loo, I opened both doors and snif

The infamous man drawer, that drawer in the kitchen which men claim for themselves as the place to store spent batteries and old light bulbs, is not the sole preserve of men. Michael McIntyre is not the only one who can order a Chinese takeaway on a Nokia 3210 and pay for it in currency that is no longer in circulation. If ever there is an exhibition I want to see, that’s free to Blue Peter badge holders, I know I have one. It is simply a matter of finding it. I am a firm believer in the woman drawer. In mine, are a number of antique spot concealers, various plastic keys for opening gas meter cupboards I cannot see, and no longer need to, because I have a SMART meter. There are also a selection of money off vouchers, that I also cannot read, but imagine have long expired. The challenge with the woman drawer is that it is the repository for a number of tiny items that might otherwise become lost. After more than fifteen years of wondering what two small black stick looking things in a plastic bag were, I

As if it’s not enough to be shouted at by people, who in the face of some obvious revelation feel the need to defend themselves by yelling, I now find myself being challenged by machines that speak. A few years ago I invested in a speaking alarm clock. It’s a small plastic box that takes an age to set. Once done, it remains silent just long enough for sleep to begin to wrap its folds around me before bursting into life and shouting the date, day of the week, time, but not the time for which I have set my alarm. I cannot help but let doubt get the better of me, roll over and reset it just in case I have made a mistake and left the gas on. Then I go through the entire routine of beating the pillow into submission before the clock starts shouting at me again. Two years ago the Sister bought me Alexa for Christmas. It, (I cannot bring myself to gender it and describe it as ‘she”) has been squatting on top of my kitchen radio gathering dust ever since. A friend of mine, put her mind to making Alexa work for

Wimbledon seems to have come round remarkably soon since the last time that our screens were saturated with incomprehensible grunting and invisible action. I know there are plenty of blind people who enjoy following sport. I’m not one of them. I prefer to follow writers and poets and the changes in GDP or what interest rates are likely to do. I follow what happens in parliament. I follow politics. Who’s at the top of their game and who’s losing their place in the league. The vicious volleys of BREXIT are just as enthralling, to me, as Wimbledon is to some of my less politically absorbed counterparts. Question Time is turning into the not to be missed tournament of the summer. I’m devastated its finished until the autumn. At least I understand the terms of engagements and can see how the players play their shots, what was a good rally and what is just plain bad gamesmanship. In the bad old days before I discovered the sport for me, I had a go at tennis. This was tennis the good old fashioned way, long

After a considerable amount of effort to plan a self guided walking tour, of revered places of worship, in Borgas, Wanda (that’s google maps to the uninitiated) and I set out. Tripping out of the hotel Cheap and Noisy, over an invisible step into four lanes of moving traffic, Wanda told me to turn left and then turn into the traffic. What I did not know, and Wanda did not tell me, was that I was standing next to a pedestrian crossing. It must have been bemusing to drivers that, cane in hand, I looked left and right and left again, (I’m in Borgas now) and sallied forth, but not at the crossing point. Wanda instructed me to turn right into … and here she fell silent. I don’t know why, because she is perfectly used to bossing me about in Bulgarian. It didn’t stop here. Wanda was silent on all street names, leaving me to draw my own conclusions. Not once on our four kilometre walk, to visit St. Ivan Rilski Cathedral, did Wanda tell me she was recalculating the route. She never told me to make a ‘U’ turn whe

A long long time ago when God was a boy and before I had teeth, I can remember sitting on the counter in the green grocers while he weighed out sugar to be bagged up in a heavy duty blue bag sealed shut with tape. Now that I have teeth and want to preserve them, I have stopped buying sugar. The flatmate and I have been the proud owners of the same bag of sugar for five years. In the intervening years, not only has dentistry come a long way but shopping has progressed too. Or has it? The advent of self service has meant that I have accidentally invested in more tins of red pepper than anyone could reasonably be expected to eat in a lifetime. Its always in the mistaken belief they are tomatoes. While the words “pepper” and “tomato” may have obvious differences to those who can see a reasonable amount, it all looks the same to me. With the rise of the superstore comes super confusion. No good relying on being able to read the signs about what lurks in each isle if you can’t see where the signs are in th

A nice woman came to my house to begin the process of long cane training. I was tense. She introduced herself with a name that sounded just like the Bulgarian word for “it’s not important.”. The flatmate and I would have thrown each other a look. We both thought the same thing. “Kak?” which means something altogether different in English than Bulgarian and it’s not “What?”. My nice mobility trainer and I set off down the road. The purpose of this jaunt was for her to observe me, out and about, so that we could make a plan of action, if action were needed. I consider my pavement technique to be pretty good but would you believe it, no sooner was I out of the front door than me, an extendable dog lead, a Chihuahua and a very angry neighbour got into a tangle. The angry neighbour started shouting and I apologised. My nice trainer whispered in my ear “don’t be sorry.” I realised that it was easier to be sorry than to explain. How confusing is that? Dusting ourselves down, we set off again. Some of the th

The Blood Bank, where I bank, is keen on inviting people in to meet their Relationship Manager. These are nearly always people who are in training and supervised by those who are licenced to advice on products that they can not advise on. These supervisors work like close protection officers. The Blood Bank brings out the worst in me. The twenty or so Relationship Managers, I have had over the years, activate a desire in me to give oxygen to the worst excesses of my imagination. No matter how provoked I am by compulsory videos on what the consequences will be if I commit fraud, during a conversation I never wanted, I have to remember that reducing the youth before me to tears, will make matters worse for everyone. Clare was my favourite Relationship Manager. She was tenacious. After many phone calls I succumbed and agreed to meet her to review my banking needs, but on the strict proviso she would not try to sell me anything. Her opening salvo was to read from a prepared script about the product range sh

Each time I’ve gone to vote, I ask where the large print ballot paper is that every polling station is obliged to display by law. It’s usually pinned on a wall which means that just about anyone who needs to read large print won’t be able to get near enough to read it. Polling station staff are obliging and generally proffer a close up look. I have no qualms about disconnecting the large ballot paper from the wall. All blind and partially sighted people are supposed to be able to exercise their right to vote in private, polling station staff are not backward in coming forward to make this happen. I’ve been repeatedly invited to make use of the publicly available magnifying glass that is next to useless for anyone with a severe sight impairment. “Off the shelf” magnifiers are designed for the majority of people who aren’t blind or partially sighted. I know this because my optician told me so. I also know this because every time one of friends finds themselves bereaved by the loss of a parent, I am bequea

A friend of mine called me up at 8.30 in a Sunday morning. He said that he was parked outside my house and would like to invite himself to breakfast. His car was packed to the gunnels with old garden machinery he had hoped to car boot. It was raining and blowing a gale so he gave up and opted for my house. Together with his hairy retriever puppy and not so hairy son, we ate breakfast, and spent the rest of the morning chatting. Finally, they stood up to leave because they now needed to go home to unpack the enormous quantity of old tools from his car and put them back in the shed. My friends’ son asked me, “Hey, would you like a chain saw or a band saw?” I said it was a kind offer but declined. “There’s nothing wrong with them and you could cut your own wood.” My friend just laughed. I gave up any garden implement, sharper that a trowel, some time ago. For years I chopped my own wood with a small axe purchased especially for the purpose. Then came the fated day that the son came home and spotted me in t

Last Saturday I got home to find the milk was off and the cheese I thought might last the course of my absence, was now cultivating penicillin. There was nothing for it but to head to the market on a dreary afternoon when I’d much prefer to have been listening to my book in front of the fire. Luck, it seemed, was on my side. Just as I reached the bus stop I heard the bus creeping up behind me so I took advantage of its comforts and climbed aboard. As soon as I got off the bus I went to buy tea. Then my luck turned. As I came out of the tea shop I was conscious of a small woman in an oversized khaki coat with a woolly hat pulled down low. I went to the next shop and bought Easter eggs. There she was again, silently watching as the contents of my purse exploded onto the unsuspecting cashier. Next I went to the charity shop because I have a sort of professional addiction to charity shops. I made my slow progression round the shop, nose to label so to speak and went to leave. There she was again. This ti

When I first started travelling to Sofia I used to fly Air Bulgaria from Gatwick. Once, having answered the call for those needing assistance to come forward now, I stepped forward and did not get quite the help I expected. What I got was a good telling off because the Air Bulgaria official thought “You are a liar. There is nothing wrong with you. Sit down immediately”. Passengers were boarded. The gate was closed and the official departed. I was abandoned, so I made the walk of shame to find the plane alone, being rescued by a man in ear muffs who, spotting the cane, got the general idea that all was not well on the old eyesight front. Many years ago I realised that, if I was to live into old age, the white cane, was essential in airports. It came about because a tried and tested technique of shoulder serving a likely looking passenger failed me. I found myself running from the terminal to the plane, in heavy rain late at night at Belfast airport. I was effectively running freestyle towards the runway. A

Everyone should clear out things they have not worn or read or paid any heed to for more than a decade. It’s oh so easy to hang on to things because they evoke the feelings of another time or an event. There comes a point though, when the original moment has long passed and the feelings they evoke are the feelings you had last time you considered showing them the door. There is no particular reason why I should have hung on to my O’Level biology notes for more than thirty years. They evoke no other feelings beyond the embaressment I felt, as me and the remaining members of my all male year group, learnt about reproduction. This may have possibly been surpassed by the terror of a bucket full of earth worms being handed round for dissection. The chief architect of the worm terror incident knows who he is. The notes were for the bin. Along with yellowing biology notes were a large pile of books on British birds, a legacy from my Uncle who was a keen twitcher. I kept them in a vain attempt to teach myself a

The snow this week prompted the son and I to remember a freezing February when he lent out of his bedroom window and broke stalagmites off the edge of the roof to suck on like lollies. We remembered building igloos and snowmen, and lying in the snow at dusk, flapping our arms and legs to see if our bodies could make the shape of angels. We could not. We generated a nondescript imprint that looked more like an accident than divine intervention. This isn’t my only brush with the white stuff. When I was six my parents introduced me to the ski slopes. We went to Klosters and stayed at the Wynegg Hotel where I met the legendary Ruth Guler. It was the sixties and everyone was glamorous. That is to say everyone except me. I was wearing a sort of baby pink bonnet affair and a pair of huge yellow goggles. My ski gloves hung out of the cuffs of my ski jacket on a bit of elastic. While others stood around on their ski poles looking relaxed, I mustered all the grace of a new born giraffe. My parents were un-phas

I was riding high and in a hurry to get to an appointment, but drearily cruising Bank Station. Bank Station always has spawned all kinds of interesting interactions that I would never have had if I had the wit and sight to work it out for myself. It’s proving to be a rich seam for unintended adventure. In the hunt for help I stumbled across, well let’s call him Brendon. Brendon was what you might describe as ‘high viz’. High viz is what gets me through Bank Station and on to the train. He works for London Underground and he was super helpful in his high viz jacket. I gave my usual explanation about not being able to see and he said “No problem. I’ll take you there myself”, and off we set. “That’s a very striking hat you’re wearing”, he said. “It’s an Ushanka”. “I thought you were a Grenadier guardsman”, says Brendon and so we fell into a conversation about how my enormous Russian fur hat came to be mine. “They used to sell them in C&A,” Brendon said. “No one wears hats anymore,