Craic On

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