tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-82111842024-03-07T07:55:59.440+00:00FangworldTHE NOT SO SECRET DIARY OF A DISABLED ARTIST & BLOGGER IN THE EARLY 21st CENTURY ©Agent Fanghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17283954005767631627noreply@blogger.comBlogger87125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8211184.post-77657405201466590912010-06-08T21:02:00.008+01:002010-06-08T21:51:47.709+01:00The Best of FangworldThe following links will take you to posts within this blog that I enjoyed writing.<br /><br /><a href="http://fangworld.blogspot.com/2004/09/biscuit-sinner.html">Biscuit Sinner</a><br /><br /><a href="http://fangworld.blogspot.com/2004/09/possessed-by-bob-ross.html">Possessed by Bob Ross</a><br /><br /><a href="http://fangworld.blogspot.com/2004/09/silly-songs_08.html">Silly Songs - The NHS of Whatever</a><br /><br /><a href="http://fangworld.blogspot.com/2005/02/being-blessed_25.html">Being Blessed</a><br /><br /><a href="http://fangworld.blogspot.com/2005/04/me-and-my-big-mouth.html">Me and My Big Mouth</a><br /><br /><a href="http://fangworld.blogspot.com/2005/10/apology.html">Apology</a><br /><br /><a href="http://fangworld.blogspot.com/2006/01/new-average-feet-part-2.html">Fly my pretties, fly!</a><br /><br /><a href="http://fangworld.blogspot.com/2006/06/you-better-shape-up.html">You Better Shape Up</a><br /><br /><a href="http://fangworld.blogspot.com/2006/09/is-that-shotgun-in-your-pocket-or-are.html">Is that a shotgun in your pocket or are you just pleased to see me?</a><br /><br /><a href="http://fangworld.blogspot.com/2008/01/institutional-hotel-part-1.html">An Institutional Hotel</a><br /><br />If there's anyone out there, enjoy!<br /><br />AFAgent Fanghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17283954005767631627noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8211184.post-63744135468388448832010-06-08T20:07:00.006+01:002010-07-23T13:16:29.734+01:00Agent Fang comes outOriginally when I started this blog, it was for the purpose of cathartic ranting. Rubbish hotels, dealing with my impairment, crappy employment experiences, you name it, I bitched about it. It was great. Another great thing was that a lot of other people were doing it too. For a while I felt a real sense of online community with other disabled people. Blogging was a new craze and we owned a little corner of it. Then, one by one, people started disappearing, although many good things remain to this day if you look for them. <br /><br />My favourite blogs from back in the day were <a href="http://labracknell.blogspot.com/">The Perorations of Lady Bracknell</a> and <a href="http://blobolobolob.blogspot.com/">Diary of a Goldfish.</a> In 2006 Diary of a Goldfish started 'Blogging Against Disablism Day' which has been an annual event each May ever since. It's the most wonderful, spontaneous and powerful thing I've ever seen anybody create. If you don't know about it, do check it out here - <a href="http://blobolobolob.blogspot.com/2010/05/blogging-against-disablism-day-2010.html">Blogging Against Disablism Day 2010</a> <br /><br />My posts became less frequent as I developed my career as a visual artist. Sadly for Fangworld, I started staying in Travelodges which were bland and boring but which had at least clean and basic disabled access. This meant my rantings about little B & B's stopped. I honestly couldn't stand many more bad experiences, although recently this theory has been sorely challenged by an unexpectedly dreadful stay at a Travelodge in Manchester whilst I was working with artist Tanya Raabe on her latest project.<br /><br />The difference now is I want to write about this project, and my work, just as much as I want to slate inaccessible hotels. I expect there will still be the occasional hotel rant, but I'm lucky to be able to do that on a bigger stage at <a href="http://www.disabilityartsonline.org/home">Disability Arts Online</a>. This blog goes live in July 2010 and will be under my own name, so I might have to contain my ire a bit. Or not... I guess it's ok to have strong opinions, and life experience has taught me it's good to own them under your own name. <br /><br />Here's the link to my new blog <a href="http://www.disabilityartsonline.org/caroline-cardus">Disability Arts Online / Caroline Cardus' blog</a><br /><br />If you're reading this because you used to like Fangworld, come over to DAO and read my new stuff. Or visit my website, <a href="http://www.carolinecardus.com/Welcome.html">www.carolinecardus.com</a> to see how my experiences over the years have influenced the art that I make. <br /><br />If you've just stumbled upon this, then check out the archives, or see the next post for a 'Best of Fangworld' list. I hope Fangworld will continue to exist even if I'm not a frequent contributor to it nowadays. It was fun to write, even though I didn't know much about writing, and a lot of my heart and soul is here.Agent Fanghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17283954005767631627noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8211184.post-26225728935596399472008-08-10T22:42:00.005+01:002008-08-11T21:26:45.120+01:00Waste triumphs and traumasIt's finally happened! I booked into a hotel that <i>doesn't have a pedal bin</i> in the accessible bathroom! (as in wheelchair user = mobility impairment + a pedal bin requires operating with the feet = a big mess round the bin, d'oh...)<br /><br />This bin was wall mounted at a sympathetic height for a wheelchair user, right next to the sink, with a handle attached to the lid. I grant if you can't use your hands either this would have been as much use as a chocolate teapot, but then again, maybe you'd have a PA with you in that case. Anyhow. I gleefully chucked in my dental floss feeling the warm glow of satisfaction that someone somewhere in the hospitality industry had put two and two together. How thoughtful.<br /><br />Unfortunately, the design of the toilet bowl was rather <i>too</i> thoughtful. Maybe you've seen a design like it if you've been to Germany - I first encountered one there when I was on the school German exchange. The toilet bowl is mainly a flat shelf, with just a small hole toward the front of the bowl into which everything gets flushed. The idea is that you 'do your business' and then get up to inspect whatever lands on the shelf. It's the kind of thing the repressed English don't do enough of, but more conscientious nations may do as a matter of course. <br /><br />You might say it's logical to be concerned about bowel health, but the thing is, I don't need a special toilet pan to show me I've eaten rubbish. I know that already, because if rubbish goes <i>in</i> then even by the most rudimentary logic, that is what will come <i>out</i>. <br /><br />But perhaps we in UK have had a rude enough introduction to this practice from a certain small-but-fierce Scottish lady, who makes silly money humiliating people by judging the content of their bottoms. Maybe it is for the greater good, but as much as I like the concept of being healthy <i>inside and out</i> I could not help but be flushed with shame when it came to my moment of truth.<br /><br />I may be making too much of a fuss, but dear reader, I was not prepared. The fact is it's hard to eat healthily on the road. <a href="http://www.gillianmckeith.info/yourbody/health/stoolanalysispoochart.php">Poo charts</a> be damned. I am traumatised. Thank goodness for the thoughtfully placed accessible height window, toward which I now wheel in haste to take in a few breaths of sweet, clean air...Agent Fanghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17283954005767631627noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8211184.post-39231456477853366442008-07-05T20:44:00.002+01:002008-07-05T21:38:08.371+01:00The Lion WhispererIt was hot today so Mr F and I went on safari as you do (oh, alright, we went <a href="http://www.woburnsafari.co.uk/">here</a>).<br /><br />It's a great day out, partly because it's all <span style="font-style:italic;">in-car</span> and so a great leveller for mobility impaired crips, but mostly because no matter how many times you go you always see the animals doing something different. <br /><br />Today we got mugged by parrots in the parrot-house, I told a lion he was lovely, whereupon he rolled over on his back and put all four paws in the air, watched the bears fight the wolves for some fish (Bears - 3, Wolves - 3), watched two monkeys fight a bitter and strategic battle for some cabbage leaves, and finally, after the cabbage war was won and all was peaceful, decided to set off for home - whereupon a monkey came from out of nowhere and parked itself on the bonnet of our car, staring in directly through the windscreen.<br /><br />Fresh from charming the lion, I tried out my newly found powers of persuasion. "Wave to me, Monkey", I said in a Very Commanding Voice. It seemed to pay some attention and stared straight at us, (that's a good start, thinks I), but then the cheeky devil slowly lifts one leg very high and begins a long, leisurely (rather hypermobile) scratch of the backside. <br /><br />There was no doubt about it, the beast was having a good ol' laugh at the newly claimed Fangian 'way with animals'. But all was not lost. The overconfident simian was so keen on giving a good show that it leaned over a little too far onto one skinny butt cheek, and, in a most ungainly manner, toppled straight off the bonnet... !<br /><br />Note to self: next Rhematologist appointment - must try commanding her to wave at me.Agent Fanghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17283954005767631627noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8211184.post-23200992433236653122008-06-17T17:39:00.005+01:002010-12-30T23:38:39.397+00:00A cutting remarkSo it was half term or something recently, and I forgot, and went into town. I usually plan in advance to avoid school holidays because the shopping centre gets full of sulky teenagers and crazy parents training toddlers to shop straight out of the pushchair. It's indoors too, which is a bonus when the teenies decide to have a temper tantrum, because then they don't get their little pink velour tracksuits muddy. <br /><br />The thing that really gets my goat is there's a certain type of parent who, when they see somebody in a wheelchair 500 meters away, grasp their kid by the scruff of the neck and hauls them bodily away in the opposite direction. I don't mind this kind of thing if a kid is about to run out in front of me, but when they're miles away and the parents do it for no reason, they both end up looking at me like I'm a plague carrier. Which, I'll have you know, I am not. <br /><br />I feel it's this kind of behaviour that teaches kids to grow up being afraid of disability, on account of a parent's over-reaction to a disabled person's presence by clawing them out of the way - when they were never <span style="font-style:italic;">in</span> the way in the first place. With such behaviour from a parent, how can a kid can ever accept you're just another human being going about their daily business, with not the slightest intention of mowing anyone down out of sheer gleefulness that you have a cool wheelchair and they do not.<br /><br />So. Where was I? Shopping centre. Half term holidays. Big mistake. I steeled myself for the inevitable signs of fear and loathing from parents, step-parents and assorted guardians. <br /><br />Soon enough, a little kid about 10 feet away from me starts being dragged to one side, and notices I'm the reason why - whereupon she twists round to the man dragging her, points straight at me and shouts; <br /><br />"Hey Dad! Look at that woman's lawnmower!"<br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">Lawnmower?!</span><br /><br />And then the Dad, still hauling, says;<br /><br />"Yes, darling!"<br /><br />So somebody somewhere is letting their kid grow up thinking we're all going round on ride-on lawnmowers. He just let her think my wheelchair was a ride on bloody lawnmower. Honestly, you couldn't make it up.Agent Fanghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17283954005767631627noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8211184.post-47020542265737134242008-01-21T11:56:00.002+00:002010-06-08T21:48:11.555+01:00An Institutional HotelOnce again I'm going to regale you with a bad beat story about a rubbish hotel. But this one was a little different. This one, well, you had to <span style="font-style:italic;">see</span> it too. Yes, I'm now so paranoid about hotel accommodation I take a camera on my travels. People often don't believe it when I tell them my bizarre accommodation stories. But it's worth remembering a lot of disabled people who travel experience this kind of thing on a regular basis. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDnvunqvym-kh1tfpYnmKsFZzz9pI_xksoSXNklh-qp-qXy91asckECxtNdxgh46U_JB7jtdURMBIAMXQtQv3Sz3WfixdsbcmwDIumFMu9kuCt40LEQLEiWO_4HqmTqoAGZawrbg/s1600-h/hellhotel4+web.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDnvunqvym-kh1tfpYnmKsFZzz9pI_xksoSXNklh-qp-qXy91asckECxtNdxgh46U_JB7jtdURMBIAMXQtQv3Sz3WfixdsbcmwDIumFMu9kuCt40LEQLEiWO_4HqmTqoAGZawrbg/s200/hellhotel4+web.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5157968013316820338" /></a>It's a pity blogger isn't doing smell-o-vision yet, or maybe for your sake it's a blessing. Because when I arrived, the place gave off the unmistakable aroma of a badly run old people's home. This impression was further compounded by the way the receptionist shouted every word rather than spoke to me. I resisted the temptation to tell her my ears were not resident in my knees and shouted back as good as I got, taking the opportunity to let go of the mounting tension I felt - fearing I'd picked another dump to stay in.<br /><br />My room had the same smell in it. I opened the small window and it began to clear, but when I opened the wardrobe, it hit again with full force. It was like the smell penetrating the entire building resided in the wardrobe in this room. Lo and behold, there was a bag of men's clothes in there! <br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyz-8WgoiOLtd8ruldzT-6-bkLzH4IANpjlL2Efnl5gpniwNxBKgPO5xovALAapEnoKQEdv4Ug9vQcSmkcIidhBoVYv43_l9aygruUUSaQz-RJ0d7gi-xgpPrYFP8ljYUNfZblcg/s1600-h/hellhotel5+web.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyz-8WgoiOLtd8ruldzT-6-bkLzH4IANpjlL2Efnl5gpniwNxBKgPO5xovALAapEnoKQEdv4Ug9vQcSmkcIidhBoVYv43_l9aygruUUSaQz-RJ0d7gi-xgpPrYFP8ljYUNfZblcg/s400/hellhotel5+web.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5157903485728165122" /></a><br />I didn't like to think where the owner of the clothes was, but I was willing to bet he was no longer on the earthly plane. Feeling like I would be grateful to leave the earthly plane myself rather than spend a night in this place, I wracked my brain trying to think of somewhere else to go. But I was in a small seaside town, the weather was freezing, and I knew I was too tired to do anything other than have a bite to eat and go to sleep. I lay back on the bed, only to be greeted with the sight of a lamp hanging directly above the pillow that looked like it hadn't been dusted since, ooo, the early '50's.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg50GeklY2TUXsYybNGx3yahTbC8Ied-5buS2OqOBLj2OjG-jIJ38HQoZ1C-C1768SOKU6mN2TkRUDKBOx_MVsnkEFf0skPgHCk-0un7S-e4lnKkyVcXfGT8BU8Ryumlb-OWSOyVA/s1600-h/hellhotel1+web.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg50GeklY2TUXsYybNGx3yahTbC8Ied-5buS2OqOBLj2OjG-jIJ38HQoZ1C-C1768SOKU6mN2TkRUDKBOx_MVsnkEFf0skPgHCk-0un7S-e4lnKkyVcXfGT8BU8Ryumlb-OWSOyVA/s400/hellhotel1+web.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5157907973968989506" /></a><br />Regretting my paranoia hadn't stretched to me packing a full cleaning kit in my luggage as well as a camera, I went down to the restaurant to have some dinner. My worst fears were confirmed when I wheeled into a near-deserted dinning room, apart from two elderly people, a man and a woman, bemoaning the choice on the menu. I can hardly bear to go into details about my food other than to say I was shocked that a hotel within 300 meters of the sea served me a sad-looking salad with some boil-in-the-bag fish that tasted as if it had been boiled in a sock. A sock belonging to the person whose clothes were currently hanging in the wardrobe upstairs. I fled, not caring that I'd told the waitress I was starving. I simply couldn't bear to order anything else for fear of wheeling screaming into the night. I decided I'd ring Mr Fang for some comforting words. My mobile was nearly dead, so I looked around for a socket to plug the charger into, whereupon I found an extension cord that probably pre-dated the dust on the lampshade... <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrWhJUnAYssnyHYKDTnxCsm3HYlPp5f6rv1ylUlHusMy8aX_ugF7XG7cOu71L-c1rL43-p7zG2VrNEaBBihkiAHdNAAKPDWfowlhbIHsJBnMT7tKTgtvRt5q5T58RIPjWi1LKIOA/s1600-h/hellhotel2+web.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrWhJUnAYssnyHYKDTnxCsm3HYlPp5f6rv1ylUlHusMy8aX_ugF7XG7cOu71L-c1rL43-p7zG2VrNEaBBihkiAHdNAAKPDWfowlhbIHsJBnMT7tKTgtvRt5q5T58RIPjWi1LKIOA/s400/hellhotel2+web.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5157907664731344178" /></a><br /><br />"Eat the biscuits on the tray and calm down" said Mr Fang, between snorts of laughter. "Serves you right for trying to book a B&B. You should know by now that unless you use a big hotel chain you risk ending up somewhere like this!" <br />"I know!" I wailed, "but I wanted to be near the sea front! And the price was the same as a Travel Inn! B&B's who charge that might be a bit weird sometimes, but generally ok!" <br /><a href="http://fangworld.blogspot.com/2005/04/me-and-my-big-mouth.html">"Remember Brighton"</a> was all he would reply. <br /><br />I sat on the bed and spent the rest of the evening eating the biscuits provided very, very slowly, pretending the first biscuit was the main course, and the second biscuit was dessert. Luckily the tray had some hot chocolate sachets, so I pretended these were additional courses - and very fine they tasted too compared to the fish served downstairs. I watched telly and tried to forget I was in an old people's home trying to pretend it was a hotel. It worked to some extent, and I got into bed ready to sleep with the knowledge that when I awoke it would be time to leave. It was bad, but what else could go wrong? <br /><br />I was just drifting off when I became aware of an uncomfortable lump in the mattress. It felt like a mattress cover was rucked up underneath the bottom sheet. I tried shifting position, feeling warm and sleepy and not at all inclined to rise and start messing around with the sheets, but irritation began to overtake stupor, so in some despair I got up to sort it out. It wouldn't take a moment to pull any cover straight, then I could get on with being unconscious... <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdtxnk8VFc5t-JL0ABkbYW_hWbpEaIrYQ4SJbD61Vfi4vf7RD9FL6C9JX4rjsdzLRFBcXySfTB1nvYyd66kZ-g0ZdPOFS7IoX_Ebomr-U-k4DJemiMYMnzygbB8uS9NUhyjpRvWw/s1600-h/hellhotel3+web.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdtxnk8VFc5t-JL0ABkbYW_hWbpEaIrYQ4SJbD61Vfi4vf7RD9FL6C9JX4rjsdzLRFBcXySfTB1nvYyd66kZ-g0ZdPOFS7IoX_Ebomr-U-k4DJemiMYMnzygbB8uS9NUhyjpRvWw/s400/hellhotel3+web.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5157913810829544786" /></a>... but this hope was dashed in fine style by the presence of a <span style="font-style:italic;">large piece of wood</span> that had been placed under the mattress! I was aghast! It wasn't even the length of the bed, which was why I'd felt a lump in the mattress! That was that - I was in a rage - which luckily provided the brute strength required to shift the thing further up the bed. I got back into bed and took several deep breaths and a large amount of sleeping pills. Mercifully, they worked. <br /><br />In the morning I got up early (this not being part of my usual nature), dressed, ordered things from the menu unlikely to need much attention from the kitchen (i.e. toast, butter, jam, water), nodded sympathetically to the two individuals in the dining room who had been present the night before, and went to settle my bill. I was not in a good mood. Then to my utter dismay, the receptionist had decided to upgrade my room booking to dinner, bed and breakfast - the difference being an extra £15! This price covered a 3 course meal (which I had refused after tasting the fish). <br /><br />"You must be joking!" I spluttered! "£15?! I barely had half of one course! Of boil in the bag fish! Which was badly cooked!" At this point, out of the corner of my eye I could see the two elderly people shuffle out of the dining room and settle themselves in the foyer. <br /><br />"Alright" said the receptionist, who had suddenly understood wheelchair users didn't need to be shouted out, "I'll take 8% off the £15..."<br /><br />"8%! I'm not paying more than a fiver for that disgraceful fish!" I yelled, aware that I was now completely losing it. "I could buy a whole box of it for that price! That's before we mention the state of the room! There were <span style="font-style:italic;">someone else's </span> clothes in the wardrobe! Exposed wiring! A lump of wood in the bed! I took pictures, look!" I waved the camera at the receptionist, who was now looking pink and flustered. <br /><br />She glanced at the camera, then up at the two elderly people who were now giving us their full attention, and muttering about food. <br />"I told you," said one. "Overpriced," said the other. <br /><br />"I'll just get the manageress, if I can find her" the receptionist said, in a voice that suggested a long wait would be arranged for my inconvenience.<br />"Fine" I replied, a kind of psychotic calm setting over me "I'm <span style="font-style:italic;">very happy</span> to wait."<br />She disappeared. <br /><br />"Last night my food was awful too," said the elderly woman, and smiled weakly. "It always is, dear." said the man, nodding. "We live here, you know," said the woman mournfully "but they don't listen to us."<br /><br />Before we could speak further, the manageress appeared, holding the menus from the night before. It was obvious from the frown on her face that not listening was a large part of her repertoire.<br /><br />"I hear you're unhappy about the bill?" she asked, in a manner designed to show that in her opinion charging £15 for a bit of salad and a boil-in-the-bag fish was absolutely reasonable.<br /><br />"I certainly am" I replied, in a voice designed to show I was absolutely not accepting it. "I'll offer £5 for the meal and no more. I didn't have 3 courses and I won't pay an extra £15 for it."<br /><br />She took a deep breath in and looked at a snack menu. "We charge £5.50 for fish and salad on the snack menu, so I'll charge £5.50 to your bill instead. Happy now?"<br /><br />"Not really" I retorted "The fact you were trying to charge me £15 in the first place is shocking. And I've just had a dreadful night in a bed with a lump of wood stuffed under the mattress, in a room with exposed wires, disgusting dusty lamps and a bag of smelly old clothes in my wardrobe! All for more that the price of a place where you can get fresh food for the price you're charging for boil-in-the-bag fish!" <br /><br />This obviously being an invitation to start war, she started shouting at me about their large overheads...<br /><span style="font-style:italic;">"Don't pass them on to your customers then!"</span> <br />Them being in business 60 years... <br /><span style="font-style:italic;">"Because you're running an old people's home! They can't leave!" </span> <br />Nobody having any complaints... <br />(this is when the elderly couple decided to make themselves scarce)...<br />And last but not least - how hard it was to house disabled and elderly guests in an old building...<br /><span style="font-style:italic;">"Then don't!"</span> <br /><br />After we'd shouted all we could with neither willing to back down, she passed me the bill and the card debit machine in frosty silence, which I used, and passed back to her in equal frosty silence. I left, feeling glad that I had a choice to do so. <br /><br />And the access? That's a whole other post, I'm afraid.Agent Fanghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17283954005767631627noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8211184.post-3421624178209147572008-01-17T14:38:00.000+00:002008-01-17T14:50:07.028+00:00The Assertive MethodSomeone posted this to me recently in response to a post I wrote on a support group messageboard. I'm not going to blog in detail about the issue at the moment, but the title of my post 'At the end of my tether and avoiding the physiotherapist - help' pretty much says it all. Many disabled people can feel helpless and angry at some point when using services that are designed to support them - but may feel things are going wrong. <br /><br />Although I do regard myself as reasonably articulate, there are times when anyone, no matter how confident, can suddenly feel a situation they're in is 'out of control'. Then sometimes it can be hard not be respond emotionally. Pouring it out might feel like the best way to demonstrate your distress at events, but it might not be the best way of getting your point of view across. In cases of emergency, try;<br /><br />The Assertive Method <br /><br />The assertive method was developed to its present state as part of the women’s movement, but is more generally effective for anyone. It provides a way to get what is wanted or needed without resorting to methods that generate strong negative reactions. It doesn't always work, but it tends to be very effective. The assertive message means more than simply standing up for yourself; it consists of four parts, preferably delivered in one short sentence each. The content should be: <br /><br />1. This is the situation. <br />2. This is how I feel about it. <br />3. This is what I want you to do. <br />4. What do you think? <br /><br />Then say ABSOLUTELY NOTHING until the other has completely run down. The lingering moment of silence at the end can be very compelling; use it. <br /><br />If you get what you want, great. If you get an acceptable alternative, give it a try, saying something like "That seems like a reasonable way to start, I'm willing to try it." If the response is very unclear, ask for further explanation. If you get neither what you want nor an acceptable alternative, DO NOT ARGUE WITH ANYTHING THAT HAS BEEN SAID, simply say, "I understand, but [this is what I want you to do]." Continue to repeat steps 3 and 4 indefinitely. If it seems that the person with whom you are talking has lost track of parts 1 or 2, it is ok to restate those. <br /><br />Sometimes it may help to check understanding. In that case, saying "Am I explaining myself?” is less confrontational than “Do you understand?” and less likely to put the other on the defensive. <br /><br /><br />The variant for refusal would involve repeating, "No, I won't do that, it will (e.g. hurt me)" followed by "I understand, but I won't do that, it will (e.g. hurt me.)"Agent Fanghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17283954005767631627noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8211184.post-27961147061411958872008-01-05T10:53:00.000+00:002008-01-08T21:16:30.362+00:001st Disability Dilemma of the YearThere's mystery meat dog food on my kitchen ceiling.<br /><br />How do I get it off?<br /><br />It's really horrible dog food too. Not food for horrible dogs, horrible food. The vet gave it to us for our poor dog with a sore ear who's just been sedated so he could have his ear cleaned. <br /><br />Last night when he got home the poor chap didn't know what planet he was on. He stood at the door for no good reason, gently swaying, ears flat, nose pressed against the frame. The vet had thoroughly washed his ear so on one side of his head his fur was all raggedy. It looked like he was using his nose to support his whole body weight. If you've ever seen the zombie flick <a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0363547/">Dawn of the Dead,</a> you'll remember the hoards of zombies quietly standing outside the shopping mall, unresponsive until they saw something that caught their attention. Last night poor dog was a dog zombie. If we ever fall prey to a Dawn-of-the-Dead type virus out here in the sticks, at least I'll know when the dog's got it.<br /><br />Just like people who've had a general anesthetic, dogs need to be looked after, kept warm, fed bland food, and be gently indulged when they do silly things. We have four cans of 'post-operative' dog food for poor dog's special recovery diet. When I was a child, after you got your bewildered animal home you didn't get special post recovery food. We just used to give our animals a bit of mashed potato or some rice and a bit of boiled chicken. But what the hell, it's Petplan's money, not mine. <br /><br />When I opened the can I was hoping the goo inside would slide out satisfyingly like in the old Petigree Chum adverts - all slick and glistening with the lines of the tin can embossed on the side. <br /><br />I gave the can a little shake. Nothing happened. I shook harder. Nothing. There's a vaccuum between the sides of the can and the meat, I thought to myself. One stick of a spoon will have it out. But when I stuck the spoon in there was no movement and no sign of the wet slurpy noise you get when releasing smelly gelatinous mystery meat from a tin can. The stuff was dense and evil-smelling, and it was at that point I knew I'd have to dig it out. <br /><br />'This looks disgusting,' I said to poor dog, who looked up at me mournfully, 'maybe you'd be better off with a few biscuits in thin gravy?' But with a very subtle change in expression, the look on poor dog's face reminded me that when something is disgusting dogs like it all the more, so because I was indulging him with his lopsided ear and matted fur, I kept on digging. It was hard work watching me so in the meantime he lay down for a little sleep. I made the best of it but the stuff stuck to everything - the spoon, the sides of the can, my fingers, the kitchen counter. But the stink of it made poor dog look optimistic and a bit less lopsided so I let him gorge on it whilst I set about scraping it all off the places it shouldn't be.<br /><br />Then because I am still under the illusion that recycling the few things our council is saying it can manage to recycle will actually save the planet, and to try and compensate for the large carbon footprint I generate because I'm a gadget-dependent cripple, I decided to try washing out the can. Big mistake. One of our taps shoots water out at tremendous speed. The jet of water shot into the can and out again at great speed, going ever upward and taking the remains of the mystery meat with it. I suppose I was lucky it missed my face.<br /><br />But that's how it got onto the ceiling. How I'm going to get it off before Mr Fang sees it or poor dog acquires the power of flight is tomorrow's adventure.Agent Fanghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17283954005767631627noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8211184.post-54456853294866097362008-01-03T12:04:00.000+00:002008-01-03T15:11:52.651+00:00Peeking out from under the coversIs it over? Has everyone gone? Didn't it go quick? <br /><br />Mr F is back at work after the holidays and I am here in the company of a mournful looking dog with a sore ear.<br /><br />Happy New Year. No promises, no resolutions.<br /><br />However, I <span style="font-style:italic;">intend</span>, somewhat cautiously, to be more chilled out this year. <br /><br />For the second year in a row we had a family bereavement, on top of a monstrous workload, and I'm determined nobody is going to die or be overworked (especially not me) this year.<br /><br />That's a good start, innit?<br /><br />Not Only, But Also, on New Year's Eve the wheelchair service rang to say I was top of the list for an indoor outdoor wheelchair. I'm pleased of course, (again, with some caution) but a little miffed too, because I just answered the new question on my profile rather succinctly...Agent Fanghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17283954005767631627noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8211184.post-71953225588060460462007-12-20T10:14:00.000+00:002008-01-19T11:25:28.846+00:00Complications and the Spirit of CripmasSo, am back from my op, and guess what? I had complications. Like bone spurs, which have now been removed. Another reason I haven't been able to do any kneeling poses in yoga. Or use my knee joint. Much. I thought was having keyhole surgery, and instead I have incisions and keyhole scars galore. Get a pen and I'm a wheeling noughts and crosses board. <br /><br />On a slightly surreal note, pantomime season has arrived early in Fangworld. I saw my horrible ex-rhematologist getting told off by her husband in John Lewis. ("For goodness sake! I've told you before! Can't you make up your mind?!" "Yes I can!" "NO, you can't!!!" ). <br /><br />It's official folks - I have been visited by the true spirit of Cripmas!Agent Fanghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17283954005767631627noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8211184.post-5880513630383286082007-11-05T12:40:00.001+00:002007-11-05T12:48:59.003+00:00Auto email responses for crips - Part IIOr...<br /><br />"It's operation time again, hooray! From (date) to (date) I will be selflessly submitting my bod for a little more medical experimentation. This means I won't be replying to your message for a few weeks but don't think it's because I don't care... although to be honest, I won't care until the painkillers have worn off. I'll be sitting in my living room with my feet up, comfort eating and watching The Clangers and The Hair Bear Bunch on DVD. Hope you're having a nice time at work. Will write soon...<br />XXX"Agent Fanghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17283954005767631627noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8211184.post-30781857867557179102007-11-05T12:34:00.000+00:002007-11-05T12:39:05.505+00:00Auto email responses for crips - Part IYou know how it is when you tell people you're going to have an operation when you're disabled - they think you might be going to snuff it (hopefully not) or get all over-concerned. I'm not fond of people fussing so I want to write an informal auto response for my incoming email messages. I have a 'proper formal' one for some work contacts, but have a lot of friends who are also colleagues, who may appreciate a little crip-related humour. It needs to be something a bit tongue-in-cheek to diffuse any anxious reactions. This is what I've thought of so far... <br /><br />"I will be on medical leave from (date) to (date). Occasionally I may limp pitifully to the computer in my dressing gown to reply to any undemanding e-mails. If you have sent a demanding e-mail that requires some thought, I may just go back to bed without replying. Please don't be offended if I don't reply, you wouldn't have got much sense out of me anyway. Body and mind will be operating at somewhat near normal capacity from (date) November."<br /><br />Whaddya think? I expect I'll post up a few more until I have to leave for the hospital. Somehow it's easier seeing them written up somewhere. Argh, etc.Agent Fanghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17283954005767631627noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8211184.post-36127302123160282422007-11-03T22:14:00.000+00:002007-11-04T00:39:08.117+00:00Pinning it down...I'm in my final stages of preparation to go into hospital this week for an operation. Just mulling over what’s in store for me over the next few weeks based on previous experience. S'not a biggie this time though - just keyhole surgery in my knee joint to (and these are not technical terms as far as I know) wash 'debris' out of the joint, and somehow, with radio waves if I remember correctly, debride (or smooth) the internal surfaces of the joint. Oh, and I'm having a pin removed from my shin too. Well, I say pin...<br /><br />This I didn't know for the past 8 years or so. I'd had some mega-constructive surgery 9 years ago and part of this surgery involved taking a bone graft from the front of my tibia and pinning it at the top to make a more stable knee joint. According to my hospital bill at the time (courtesy of Mr F's company I was able to go private) the guy also remodelled my femur - although according to the latest surgeon, the femur still looked suspiciously odd. I dunno if maybe it just grew back into it's freaky-shaped self over time, but whatever, the latest set of x-rays showed it distinctly unmodelled - and I know I've rambled a bit here, but I was coming back to it, honest - the other things the x-rays showed was the pin. <br /><br />Now I'd been told this was a teeny-weeny ickle pin holding an itsy bitsy bit of bone on top of the tibia - but it wasn't. It was actually a dirty great fuckin' nail. Yes, a nail! With a rounded head. If you do any DIY at all, you'll know that round headed items tend not to fit smoothly on to flat surfaces, which explains why I haven't been able to do any kneeling poses in yoga for the past few years. <br /><br />I'm kinda in that position many crips despair of, when you submit yourself to more surgery and more 'opinion' from someone who doesn't live with your body on a day-to-day basis. But I gotta give this guy some credit, he knows the practical implications of my bone structure and can explain back to me exactly what trouble I have with the way my joints move. So if he can look at an x-ray and explain my experiences from walking to age 37 (one of his little sound bites - 'your tibia and femur are like two ice cubes sitting on top of one another and your patella has drifted miles away' - cute, eh?) then I'm happy to give it a chance. Also, music to my ears, he doesn't want to go in and chop everything up again and be a big experimental hero and 'fix' me once and for all. <br /><br />(Beware, if any doctor starts saying those kinds of things to you, wheel or run or hop like hell away to somebody else and get a second opinion before submitting to a 'fixer'. He hasn't given me any of that 'cure' bullshit. Just that he'll take look and have a think and nothing else until we've talked about it, because he wants to be 'conservative' about things). <br /><br />That leaves me free to worry about mundane stuff that is incredibly important for my peace of mind over the next few weeks. Like, do I have any decent big 'hospital supersize' knickers? Should I buy more mature looking pyjamas that don't have pictures of Eyore or Little Miss Naughty on them? Should I shave my legs (less pain but short term result) or epilate them? (more pain but smoother for longer). Don't wanna be stubbly in physiotherapy. Does my swimming costume still fit? How am I gonna spend my time during recovery? I'm sick of playing Tetris on my old Gameboy colour and I finished Pokemon years ago. Reading? Are there any books in the house I haven't read? Is there enough comfort food in the house? How do I get all the dog fur off my dressing gown? <br /><br />It's all-important stuff. And you may laugh but after a fair few operations, my way of not feeling like total shite is to plan to have something nice (i.e., sans Disney characters) to wear, to not be stuck in bed looking at a pair of hairy legs for weeks, to have something to do to pass the time, and maybe manage to look like I haven't just lost my lunch when people come to see me. And ban all cameras. Seriously.<br /><br />This last bit is pure vanity, but the requirement for visitors to check their cameras at the bedroom door comes from a family ritual I was regularly subjected to in childhood. Hospital became a regular feature in my life from the age of 12 onwards. Maybe to cheer me up, with the best of intentions, Dad insisted on documenting the whole thing each time. Maybe he was trying to make me feel 'special' in the nicest sense of the word, but the trouble with being in hospital is you're usually looking far from your best. The last thing you want even, if you're a tomboy-ish sort of child, is a picture of yourself looking up in misery from the sick bowl. On one occasion I'm sure a photograph of me on the ward was circulated in the family Christmas letter. Oh yes. My Dad loved photography - and there's boxes full of incriminating scrapbooks of my nerdy crippy childhood to prove it in the loft. <br /><br />Another fetching shot shows what to expect if you've been in plaster for a long period of time. Not even a supermodel could make this look photogenic - the muscles of your plastered limb waste away, while comically in contrast the other limbs stay the right size. In summer if you've tanned, chances are they'll be a very different colour as well. At the time I was just old enough to need to start shaving my legs. I looked on in disbelief as the plaster cast came off to show a horror of a white, wasted leg looking like it belonged to an underfed werewolf, covered in long dark hairs. 'Blimey, look at that' said Dad, in his element, snapping away - managing to capture both my mother and the doctors smirking in the background at the horrified look on my face... <br /><br />So. Dignity, dignity, dignity all the way. No photos. <br /><br />(Except for the part where - with some persuasion from Mr F 'cos I'm not sure what to do with it - I've decided to ask the surgeon to save the pin he's removing from my shin. It's big. It's ugly. And I'm determined to get some good photos of it before leaving it in the past where it belongs!)Agent Fanghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17283954005767631627noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8211184.post-23476206939991355072007-10-26T00:54:00.000+01:002007-10-26T00:55:27.678+01:00Breaking the law, breaking the lawAges ago I was watching one of those crappy 'Top 100 Worst Videos of All Time' programmes. You know the ones, they're on at the weekend, when you've decided not to go anywhere and are feeling thoroughly shite for whatever reason. <br /><br />Usually you don't hate yourself enough to sit through that kind of carcrash rehash, but after scoffing cheap takeaway food that has given you uncomfortable wind and not yet having drunk enough alcohol to stupefy you into sleep, you channel hop onto something your sober self would never entertain, like the 'Top 100 Worst Videos of All Time', miserable in your cheap gluttony, and stay there.<br /><br />The presenter was slagging off this video (Breaking the Law by Judas Priest) where the band break into a bank using the explosive power of, um, their guitars (cynical cough). They make it to the safe, where the lead singer bends some woefully flimsy bars apart only to find - a copy of their video! All that effort to invent a new and innovative use for the electric guitar only to gain a Judas Priest video. Talk about being robbed.<br /><br />Back in Fangworld, meanwhile, I suppose I need to make some flimsy excuse as to why I've been neglecting my blog lately (ok, all year). I haven't been at home much to watch crap telly because I have power, the power of an electric chair! It's not as powerful as an electric guitar, mind, and I certainly can't rob any banks with it, as the top speed is only 2 mph. In case you're wondering, that's about senior shuffling speed. So I have been working, working away, not cooking cheese straws as my New Year's resolution promised. But the hotels I usually stay in cook such awful breadcrumb coated food that I prefer to buy my dinner at Marks and Spencers instead. They make pretty decent cheese straws, so I've given up on that one. Zooming in and out of M&S food halls all over the south east, in my little powerchair. <br /><br />The chair is little because its an 'indoor only' chair. Whereupon we come to the snag. There has to be a snag, doesn't there, because being disabled, at the mercy of the support services, them letting me have something I actually NEED, to do with what I ACTUALLY NEED TO DO, would be only COMMON SENSE, and as you've probably gathered if you've read my blog before, my local services don't have any common sense.<br /><br />To this end, earlier on in the year, I found myself staring at freedom, in the form of the new wheelchair that had just been delivered, and a form. A form I had to sign saying I could only take possession of the new wheelchair, that my consultant had said I needed all the time, if only I promise-promised cross-my-heart-and-hope-to-die that I wouldn't do the following;<br /><br />Use the wheelchair in my (fully ramped and wheelchair accessible) conservatory<br /><br />Use the wheelchair in my (fully ramped and wheelchair accessible) back garden<br /><br />Use the wheelchair to go to my (fully ramped and wheelchair accessible) front garden, not even to go to just the end of my front garden path where the fish and chip van parks on a Friday night. Shit, eh?<br /><br />And worst of all<br /><br />Use the wheelchair outside, in my (fully ramped and wheelchair accessible) vehicle, to go ANYWHERE that wasn't my bedroom, bathroom, living room and hallway.<br /><br />So that's my life enabled then - NOT. Apparently, <i>apparently</i> it's something to do with the fact that although I am educated to degree standard, have no cognitive impairment, sight impairment or any other impairment apart from NOT BEING ABLE TO WALK ANYWHERE, I shouldn't use the VERY THING I NEED TO HELP ME BECAUSE I CAN'T WALK ANYWHERE, in case I cause myself harm. Because, why? Why? Would crawling or falling over be so much better then? Oh no, it is - the technician told me <i>with a perfectly straight face</i> - for my own safety. <br /><br /><i>Apparently</i> some crip (who luckily for them is dead now because if they weren't I'd be havin' a word...), once drove their NHS funded wheelchair into a pond. And died. Apparently according to the wheelchair service. On that basis, the wheelchair service got sued and blamed for this person's untimely death. (They must have spent less on their legal defence than the price of a pressure relief cushion). <br /><br />Can you see a flaw in this anywhere? Who'd have thunk the pond diving cripple made a bad judgement of his or her own? Do they ever think that sometimes we think for ourselves? (Ok, so deciding you're going to go swimming in your garden pond wasn't a great decision, but...) Oh no! It was blamed on the wheelchair service, something about their misinforming this person that their new wheelchair could swim, <i>apparently</i>, with the result that they have decided none of the other disabled people in the whole of the country can be trusted to use their wheelchair properly - i.e. at all. So now to cover themselves, <i>apparently</i> they are forced to make sure when people who have been waiting years for a wheelchair finally get one, that they have to basically not use it, in case they die and someone blames the wheelchair service - and here's the clincher - because if someone uses their chair wrongly and dies and the wheelchair service get sued again THE LEGAL BILLS WILL CLOSE THE ENTIRE WHEELCHAIR SERVICE IN THE UK DOWN FOR EVER AND ALL THE CRIPPLES IN THE LAND WILL HAVE TO GIVE BACK THEIR EQUIPMENT AND NEVER HAVE ANY HELP AT ALL FROM THE WHEELCHAIR SERVICE FROM NOW UNTIL THE END OF TIME, ALL BECAUSE OF THE SELFISHNESS AND WILFULLNESS OF ONE STUPID CRIPPLE WHO WOULDN'T FOLLOW THE RULES THAT WERE ONLY THERE FOR THEIR OWN SAFETY. <br /><br /><i>"Now Ms Fang, you wouldn't want that to happen, would you?"</i><br /><br />Can you smell something? <br /><br />Honestly. I couldn't make this stuff up. If I ever had a disabled child, I would tell them this tale if I wanted to give them nightmares. But this is what the technician told me on that day, a day that should have been full of new horizons. Sign the form and promise. Sign it now, or we'll put it in the van and take it away again and give it to somebody else.<br /><br />I did seriously think about crying and saying no and stamping my foot, but I didn't, because this year I have also been diagnosed with osteoporosis (Yeah. I told you I was feeling shite). I signed the goddamn form. It felt like a little piece of my soul had been torn off. The technicians got in the van and drove away, leaving me with the phone number of the manufacturer on a badly photocopied instruction booklet. I felt so crap about giving in I stayed at home and did as I was told, being miserable about it and signing the form, watching crap television programs about metalheads robbing banks by the power of their guitars. I read the manual and it told me all the usual stuff – don't run the battery down, don't modify it without help from your wheelchair technician, and above all else, don't try and swim in your new powerchair. Funnily enough the booklet seemed to suggest that as long as you didn't tax the chair's capabilities, it could be used outside. And safely transported in the kind of vehicle I happen to own. A couple of calls to the manufacturer confirmed that although speed wise you could be overtaken in the street by an arthritic granny the battery had a range of 7.5 miles.<br /><br />That night the fish and chip van arrived at its usual time and I boldly went to the end of my front pathway to get some cod and chips. Damn, it was so nice to be outside! It occurred to me that owing to some ridiculous boundary rule the wheelchair service who looks after me is not in the county I live in, but one next door. And that the people who come out to visit me often say things like 'You live very far away, it's taken me ages to get here' and 'I don't usually come out this way apart from visiting you'. So that night, I ate the chips my new chair had enabled to fetch from a few feet outside my house, and pondered this.<br /><br />Next time I was offered some work in a town far away from home, I took a deep breath and stashed the powerchair in my van instead of taking the manual wheelchair. Words can hardly describe just how well I felt after completing my work - I still had energy to boldly go! I went to Marks and Spencers and bought some cheese straws and a packet of luxury biscuits. Like the cod and chips, they tasted particularly wonderful. So the next night I did it again. And the night after that. And the next, and the next. Being independent is quite more-ish, isn’t it? <br /><br />When I got home, the first thing I did was drive the chair into my conservatory. No Pythonesque hand came down from the heavens to smite me. Next day I went into town. This was the day I found out that at top speed I could be overtaken by pensioners (they were too busy deciding what to buy in the M&S food section to try overtaking me there) but to be honest, I didn't care - and I still don't care now. I just boldly go and to hell with the consequences. What is the world coming to when it's taken me 6 years of struggle just to get around easily again? Should I feel guilty that I'm enabled to sneak around doing such subversive activities like going into my conservatory, down the front path to the fish and chip van, shopping and holding down a job? Am I hurting anyone by carefully going where I can? Even if I was to get caught tomorrow and made to hand over the powerchair for my errant behaviour, I can honestly stay that to just do these things for a little while has been worth it. It feels like I've stolen the gold, and I'm telling you, it feels a helluva lot more valuable than a lousy Judas Priest video.Agent Fanghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17283954005767631627noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8211184.post-1176294687311102502007-04-11T13:02:00.000+01:002007-04-11T13:50:00.603+01:00Don't look down?I went to a posh arts do the other week. I had a badge with my name on it, and underneath my name it said 'Artist'. This is because its what I do for a living. If people worked for an organisation - for a living - they had either their job title and the organisation's name on their badge, or if they didn't have a particular title, just the organisation's name. The director's badges said 'Director'. <br />Well, you would, wouldn't you?<br /><br />You knew you were at an important do because the food included things like sun-dried tomatos and a cheese whose name I can't spell. I ate it anyway. <br /><br />Talking of cheese, there was one encounter during an otherwise pleasant evening that made me feel rather fed up.<br /><br />During 'networking' time - between arrival and the main event, it's fairly common to approach someone and get chatting. I was chatting to a someone I knew, someone switched on to disability arts, arts and disability and all that jazz, when some guy came up and introduced himself. But only to her. At the earliest opportunity, she introduced him to me. He said;<br /><br />"Hello."<br /><br />And looked up.<br /><br />And picked up where he left off with her. <br /><br />It doesn't help at these things everybody else is standing up and I'm sitting down. Looking up makes my neck sore. It means eye level is more difficult to establish in close up situations, especially if the standing person trying to network with the standing person you are networking with doesn't seem to ever look down, in your direction. <br /><br />I wondered if he had a sore neck too.<br /><br />My friend decided to try drawing me into the conversation again. She told him we'd worked together and that I was an artist. <br /><br />It got me a look down. He said;<br /><br />"Are you trained to work as an artist?"<br /><br />I said<br /><br />"Yes." <br /><br />Emphatically. <br /><br />He looked up again. <br /><br />And that was pretty much that. <br /><br />It seems to me disabled people still have a long journey ahead of them in the arts when some people clearly don't think we are capable of working at a professional level. I'd like people to think if they met me at a function where we all have our job titles on our badges, that they might assume that when mine says 'artist', its not a hobby. It's as bad as bloody Access to Work.<br /><br />I memorised the name on his badge for future reference. Maybe one day I'll get to 'not look down' at him. <br /><br />(The name would have stuck, too, if I hadn't stayed up so late observing a bet on who was going to leave the bar first to go to bed!!! You know who you are!)Agent Fanghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17283954005767631627noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8211184.post-1167752875773607532007-01-02T14:58:00.000+00:002007-03-16T22:41:25.286+00:00Happy New YearPeople are asking me the old chestnut, what are your new year resolutions?<br /><br />I try not to set the bar too high when it comes to resolutions. Therefore, I only allow one simple resolution and consign everything else as <i>intentions</i>. It's a non-pressure system that works beautifully by not putting pressure on you, the resolver. <br /><br />Intentions, aspirations, ambitions, whatever you want to call them, have no set timescale - and if they don't happen, one may be bumped up to resolution status if you're bothered enough by not getting round to it this year. <br /><br />As an <i>indender</i>, I am free to intend in my own time, which may or may not come to pass within 365 days - no deadline by which guilt will be inflicted if the intention has not come to pass, with the additional knowledge that I am capable of dealing with <b>one set resolution</b>, and in that rests hope. <br /><br />And this year hope will be fostered in the bountiful form of cheese straws. Yep. Cheese straws. My one resolution for this year is to learn how to make cheese straws. Because cheese straws are something to aspire to. They seem relatively simple to do, and well, they're nice, aren't they? Cheese straws may play no profound part in my life or the workings of the universe, but they will surely grease the wheels by making people who are presented with them happy in some small degree. And if that isn't hope, what is?<br /><br />There's no sugar in 'em either, and this year one of my lesser aspirations is to cut down on sugar. Not completely, obviously, because biscuits generally contain sugar and a world without biscuits is unthinkable, more so than a world without cheese - it's just that biscuits will not be my main focus this year because I <i>intend</i> to shed a teensy bit of weight. <i>Intend</i>, though. D'you see what I'm doing here? No pressure. More haste, less speed, an' all that.<br /><br />Other intentions are as follows; go out of the house to do something nice at least once a week even if unwell, travel to London and see more exhibitions, get out of the habit of saying "Excellent!" to everything all the time, open and file my bank statements in a timely manner, contact people more often and generally be more sociable, buy more clothes that actually match my disproportionate shoe collection, experiment more with hair dye, nail my Access to Work application and actually start a big art project I have been dreaming of for the past couple of years.<br /><br />All scary stuff, of course. <br /><br />Last year my resolution was to moisturise my neck. I got the idea after seeing a program about Margaret Thatcher having a portrait painted. I'm not, nor was ever a Thatcherite, but when Maggie turned round and said "One of my few regrets is not moisturising my neck, look how wrinkly it is in the portrait" I thought, hmm, that'll do, I'll have a crack at that... One year on, thanks to the former Tory prime minister, I'm still moisturising. <br /><br />So, with a smooth neck - and cheese straws - under my belt, surely nothing will seem impossible in the coming year? Nothing!<br /><br />Happy New year everybody.Agent Fanghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17283954005767631627noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8211184.post-1161952297971130982006-10-27T12:59:00.000+01:002007-01-01T12:00:57.210+00:00Naked TruthI now have a frock for this black tie do on Saturday (now past - I was to knackered to finish this draft in time...). I only went in one shop too. 'Smug' monthly*. <br /><br />This shop has very helpful assistants that usually intimidate me (it's a bit posher than I'm used to), so I spend my time in there browsing whilst at the same time trying to avoid the assistants, with a sort of stealth fleeing behind rails of clothes every time one moves too close. A good thing about them having hard floors is that I can glide out of the way quite quickly. I hate people zooming in on me if it's because I'm in a wheelchair, with that automatic assumption (some of them have) that I can't choose a dress on my own. Because choosing a dress is nothing to do with needing to use a wheelchair. Is it? <br /><br />But yesterday I was so godamn tired I didn't flee. Within twenty seconds someone was asking me if I needed any help. "Yes please," I said. "I need a dress for a black tie occasion. I don't mind if it's strappy but I'll need something like a bolero or wrap that goes with it to cover a tattoo. Please just show me what you've got that I might be able to get away with?" <br /><br />She smoothly steered me over to the long dresses, which was like being in a kind of lush forest of silk and lace. Long dresses on racks tower above you in a chair and the world feels quite imposing and alien. I did my best 'Lou and Andy' and said "I want that one. And I want that one..." and so on. There were some upstairs too, so with this lady trailing lace and satin dresses, we went up in the lift. I was really grateful because all she talked about was dresses - what they had in, what went with what, and so on. But I was still on guard for the conversation to stray into those awkward 'what's-your-disability?' areas at any time. To her credit, it didn't and she left me in the hands the upstairs assistant who offered me the bridal changing room (i.e. big enough for me, the chair and a bit of falling over room) to try on dresses collected thus far. I was so bloody tired I was determined to buy something from this shop rather than push myself round the shopping centre only to struggle with dressing acrobatics in ever smaller changing rooms that flash my arse through the curtain because it won't close properly over a wheelchair wheel. <br /><br />The dress I liked best looked dreadful on. I do wish Trinny and Susannah would do wheelchair users on their fashion makeover programmes - I kind of have a grasp of what some of the rules might be, but I usually dress for comfort or getting my hands dirty - and now, the artful camouflage of dog hairs. Black tie is not usually on my social calendar. With this sort of thing, memories of other 'do's' come flooding back, especially <a href="http://fangworld.blogspot.com/2005_02_01_fangworld_archive.html">the one with the vicar.</a> <br /> <br />I was also trying to buy something that would be suitable for various smart occasions, not just a glamorous evening do, in case another doesn't come along for a long time. But all I was left with was a black, floor length halterneck with velvet ties and a lace/satin overlay. This had to be the one, or I was doomed to drag myself across the shopping centre - and it was. If I'm ever in a blockbusting film it might get another airing on the red carpet. It was lush. Too posh really, but I decided it was also roomy enough to allow me to eat more malteasers, hence the chances of it being used once in a while weren't too bad. Mission accomplished. Time to climb out of it, pay and leave.<br /><br />Just as I was at my most vunerable, naked, eyeing my stomach and regretting not doing all my core stabilisation exercises, a little voice floated over the top of the curtain.<br /><br />"I might have to be in a wheelchair one day" it said. "I've got rhematoid arthritis."<br /><br />I sucked in my stomach. And said,<br /><br />"That's nice. You'll like being in a wheelchair once you get used to it."<br /><br />And paid.<br /><br />And went home to bed.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br />*It's a phrase Mr F and I use to designate just how smug we are feeling based on the imaginary 'Smug' magazine. So 'Smug' quarterly isn't very smug compared to say, 'Smug' weekly, which is really quite smug, but not quite as smug as 'Smug Annual', which being a yearly roundup of all the best of Smug, is very very smug indeed.Agent Fanghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17283954005767631627noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8211184.post-1161862878784648902006-10-26T12:37:00.000+01:002006-10-26T15:33:41.113+01:00UnderwhelmedI have to go and buy a frock today. For a black tie do. I'm not a black tie do sort of person. And I hurt. And it's raining. And I've been putting it off because I'm too tired for this sort of thing.<br /><br />Damn.<br /><br />Not least because I know fate will direct me to any number of excellent things that I will not be able to purchase because I only have money for a frock. <br /><br />But really I am hankering after getting a silly coloured hat.Agent Fanghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17283954005767631627noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8211184.post-1161617198105127262006-10-23T15:24:00.000+01:002006-10-23T16:26:38.243+01:00Really Beyond Boundaries?I've just watched the last episode of <a href="http://www.bbc.co.uk/ouch/tvradio/beyondboundariesafrica/">Beyond Boundaries</a>, the series following a bunch of disabled people trekking accross Africa to reach the Skeleton Coast.<br /><br />If you follow that link you'll find plenty to read and some interesting conversations about it on the messageboards. I'm not intending to write about it in depth here as there's plenty of interesting threads that go further there than I could, but one thing did strike me about the last episode. <br /><br />The group are going through the sand dunes and begin to disagree with their guide, Ken. One the last day, Ken steps down and leaves it to them to naviagate after having been overruled the day before. Comments about Tim being a self-appointed leader, not an elected one, were beside the point here as far as I was concerned because no-one seemed to ask for Ken to return and as far as the footage shows (a well appointed ha! will escape any cynical reader here) Ken appears to hang back and let them get on with it. And he seemed happy (ha! again, etc) to do so in the main. <br /><br />And get on with it they do. In typical crip fashion, they do it a bit differently than he would have done. Maybe that was down to expertise - or the point made the day before that for many the going was much easier in some places. Maybe that was an essential priority for the group that Ken couldn't ever have really comprehended. And maybe they cocked it right up and were lucky to get to the coast, but I couldn't help thinking this little revolution went further than anything else to gel them as a team, rather than staying under a leader who was, for all his good points, not 'part' of the group, who did not - who could not - share in their insights.<br /><br />For me, that was a significant boundary broken. Not just for the crips but for the guide too. No more direction from you Ken, they seemed to be saying. We'll take it from here, mate, cheers all the same. There's aspects of this terrain we need to deal with in our own way.<br /><br />Wahey! Now we're cooking with gas, Beyond Boundaries!<br /><br />Because if you're disabled, how many people stand back and let you get on with it? How many times do you tell someone to get lost and get on with it in your own way despite their misgivings?<br /><br />Not many people? Not nearly enough of the time?<br /><br />Now <i>thats</i> a <i>real</i> boundary gone beyond if ya ask me. It's the power play between those who are the 'cans' and whose who are percieved as the 'can'ts'.<br /><br />If they want to evolve the series for next time as far as I'm concerned, they'll need to get the next lot more actively involved in making the decisions - not following a leader. At least working <i>alongside</i> one. Why not? Why not train people to navigate next time, for example?<br /><br />Don't think I'm being recklessly anti-AB here. That's not the point. The point is you can take people with whatever disabilities and put them in front of all sorts of dangers, but if they've got a guide, a bloke with a gun, a doctor, a helicopter on standby in case someone gets a pressure sore (soz Heidi, but..), whatever, then they've got a safety net which is essentially a group of people who aren't disabled to bail them out. In a greater sense thats the part of the series that seems old-fashioned and stale to me as a disabled audience member, when it's telling us it's all risky and groundbreaking. Woohoo. What's that saying again about art reflecting society? <br /><br />Obviously we don't to pay our licence fee to see the BBC feed crips to hyenas or die of heatstroke but I'd have thought more control now a group have been seen to take it, would be an attractive bar for the production team to reach next time. <br /><br />I know sometimes being independent means knowing when to ask for help - so by all means don't chuck out the safety net, but I feel there's a degree of boundary that goes beyond deserts and rapid waters that warrants further exploration, hell, <i>exploitation</i>, here.Agent Fanghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17283954005767631627noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8211184.post-1161603393565737732006-10-23T12:19:00.000+01:002006-10-23T13:50:44.760+01:00Top Ten Unexpected Benefits of a Connective Tissue DisorderThought I'd start the week on a positive note. Or something. So.<br /><br /><b>Top Ten Unexpected Benefits of a Connective Tissue Disorder</b><br /><br />1. Never needing help to apply fake tan to that bit between your shoulders<br /><br />2. <i>Really</i> having baby soft skin<br /><br />3. Feeling superior at yoga classes even though you only started them last week<br /><br />4. A real chance of being able to run away and join the circus<br /><br />5. Earning money by doing contortionist tricks on TV 'home video' shows <br /><br />6. Silencing doctors who say, 'You can't do that' by saying 'Oh yeah? Watch this...'<br /><br />7. Telling people it really <i>is</i> your parent's fault<br /><br />8. Unfair advantages in Hide-and-Seek, namely the ability to squeeze into the smallest spaces<br /><br />9. The game of <a href="http://www.mathematik.uni-bielefeld.de/~sillke/Twister/">'Twister'</a> holds no fears for you<br /><br />10. Reducing dislocated joints in front of an audience cements your 'hard-as nails' reputation<br /><br />I can't decide whether or not to post it on the support group messageboard... tis a rather serious place... don't wanna get banned or nuffink...Agent Fanghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17283954005767631627noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8211184.post-1160390982874014722006-10-09T11:43:00.000+01:002006-10-17T13:58:33.600+01:00The 'OUCH!' Podcast Must Be Saved!Do you listen to the Ouch! podcast? <br /><br />No? Why not? <br />Yes? Have you signed the petition to keep it yet? <br /> <br /><a href="http://www.petitiononline.com/saveouch/petition.html">read the petition and vote now!</a> <br /><br />As you may have guessed, I'm a fan.Agent Fanghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17283954005767631627noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8211184.post-1159186669973472412006-09-25T11:54:00.000+01:002006-10-17T06:26:35.733+01:00Is that a shotgun in your pocket or are you just pleased to see me?<em>Please note; this happened a few weeks ago now and I have berated myself enough for the outcome! Thank you.</em><br /><br />Recently my neighbours were alarmed to see I had an unexpected visitor. Upon knocking on their doors, he explained he was looking for me and had taken the trouble to go round the village to find out if anyone knew where I lived. Their alarm was mainly because he had a Landrover covered in stickers depicting shotguns, plastered with slogans like "We're the good ol' boys!" and "Come and shoot something with us!" etc. After he'd gone away, one of them (the only curmugeon on the block) admitted he'd thought I'd hired the guy to come and shoot them all so I could move some younger neighbours in. Not true.<br /><br />This gentleman, far from coming to assist their exit from the world, had in fact called round to check I was still in it. This was because he was witnessed me doing something incredibly stupid on my trike, that ended with me, the wheelchair and the trike parting company in a rather spectacular way.<br /><br />It's all the battery's fault. I got a new battery and needed to drive 1.5 miles on a smooth flat surface 4 or 5 times to get it up to full capacity. Instead of a quick burn round the block, the battery seems to prefer a more gentle pace of around 4mph during this procedure. There is a nice little road near our house that goes past sheep and cow fields which I decided it was the perfect route to kill 1.5 miles of distance - and nearly myself, as it turned out.<br /><br />This road is single track only. Not much traffic, not least on a Sunday evening when the sun is setting and the livestock are settling down for the night. But where traffic does meet, there are few passing places so it nearly always involves a complicated manoevere between vehicles.<br /><br />On the evening in question, I was trundling along, enjoying the sunset and reflecting on how much life had changed in the past year (where we used to live in a small town with neighbours-from-hell and housebound). In a cheery mood, I waved hellos to the sheep and cows and didn't notice the noise of an engine until it got quite close behind me. Damn. I was quite a way away from a passing place. Suddenly, although the driver hadn't done anything impatient like revved the engine or hooted the horn, I felt very 'in the way'. A wave of guilt swept over me - what did this person think of being held up by someone in wheelchair pottering along at 4 miles an hour? <em>"Bloody hell, you're holding everybody up" </em>said a voice in my head. I looked around for somewhere I could pull over so they could pass. A little further up the road off to the right was a track leading down to some pens for the livestock. I would turn off onto that track and let the vehicle pass, then turn back onto the road and continue my meandering pace. <br /><br />Approaching it, I could see a downward slope that was coated with concrete with that knobbly non-slip surface texture for grip. If I turned right on to it from the road I would be at quite a sideways-down angle, which could be tricky. So I was careful. I slowed down and pulled gently to the right, stopping upright and shipshape on the track. There. No harm done. The vehicle pulled past. I gave it a confident wave. The sky was a beautiful deep red colour and it crossed my mind that this was a lovely time to come out riding and it would be a good idea to get some bike lights so people could see the trike in twilight. <br /><br />The next bit happened in a matter of seconds. Releasing the brakes, the trike moved forward slowly - and one wheel left the ground. Owing to the steepness of the angle I decided to veer right and straight down, then make a left turn and get back up to the road head on to the slope to avoid coming unstuck. I accelerated to get myself out of trouble, but this was the worst thing I could have done. The left back wheel hit a big lump of concrete and for a moment I was on two wheels thinking I could recover, but then there was a bang and a crash, as I sought to control the front end by applying opposite lock to the left and the chair tipped right, then my bodyweight lost the battle and tipped forward and sideways, nudging the locking clip between chair and front end open - leaving me, the trike and the chair parting company, bouncing on the concrete before coming to a halt at the bottom! I remember the first impact on my right kneecap before a impromptu forward roll. I haven't done a forward roll since primary school. <br /><br />Bugger!<br /><br />I was lying in a little heap thinking "I'll know in a moment whether I've fractured my kneecap or not..." I'm nervous about falls on my knees owning to low bone density around that area. I was sure I'd landed squarely on it. Damn stupid idiot. I wiggled my toes. Ouch... but not too ouch. Not ready to move yet. I watched retreating red lights as the Landrover drove off down the road. Then they seemed to come to a halt. Was he stopping for me? <br /><br />I didn't know if that was a good thing. After a fall I'd far rather be left to sort things out in my own time. I was pissed off with myself as well for taking a stupid risk. <em>"Should have made him wait til you got to a proper passing place...."</em> said the same spiteful voice in my head that had berated me for holding the guy up beforehand. I put my head back down on the concrete, remembering I had a mobile phone in my pocket. Thank God for Mr Fang nagging me to be responsible - I hadn't been too keen at first to be so diligent. The Landrover had definitely stopped. Time to look silly. Oh dear. You know how it goes, wobbly crip friends. A person got out and started to run towards the little pile of me and machinery. <br /><br />If you're a crip that falls over regularly, don't you hate this bit? Once you've got used to those 'whoa - and down!' sort of events, the aftermath of stillness and floor can almost be... comforting. You're down, but still present. Once the floor has caught you there's nowhere else to fall. You hurt, but again, if part of your condition is getting hurt suddenly, there's a little piece of you that remains calm and separate from the 'Ows' and thinks, remarkably quickly, about practical things. <em>'Where's the phone?' 'Is an ambulance required?' Where's the nearest chair?' </em> and <em> 'How am I going to calm everybody down',</em> often followed by <em>'How embarrasing!'</em><br /><br />Wiggling my toes again and deciding I was ok to move, I looked up at the man now standing over me. Damage control mode.<br />"Thankyou, thankyou, I'm ok, don't worry, it was my fault, how stupid, I knew I shouldn't have turned off there..." I babbled, trying to put him at ease at the alarming sight of a wheelchair on its side, wheels idly spinning. Because it's such a cliche, isn't it? The deposed cripple, the wrecked chair. <br /><br />It's the sort of thing you see in a crap film that stereotypes us and the few things people can imagine happening to us - after we've tried to destroy the world someone takes a swipe and we're on the ground, wheels spinning. For the audience it spells the end. So I feared what this guy was 'seeing' was not just some silly girl who'd taken a tumble, but the utter destruction of someone weird. And maybe that somehow it was his fault, because another thing people sometimes feel is unexplicable guilt if they see a crip get hurt when they're nearby (with the exception of some NHS nurses, y'know, the ones with brass balls who, from time to time during hospital stays have scolded me for having the sheer bloody cheek to fall over in front of them...).<br /><br />So the guy helps me up. He's so stunned he just does what I ask of him - take the chair, turn it the right way up, grap that bit there, stick the brakes on, dock the trike, thank you very much, as you can see I'm on my feet now, so no harm done, and god, I'm just so, so embarrassed - and thank you. I might have a bruise tomorrow, but whatever. Please just get back in your car now and I'll follow you out of this lane, and for pete's sake don't tell anyone about this, because if my husband thinks I've done something reckless he'll worry about me, and I've learned my lesson now, so no harm done, eh? Ok? And thanks again. Goodbye. Yes, I'm ok. Honestly.<br /><br />So he drives off, and I go home. After getting in and sitting down to prove there has been no big damage, I say meekly to Mr F "I had a little spill out there." He says "What?!" I say "Oh, I sort of slid out the chair when it went down a bank, but I'm ok, might have a bruise or two, but I coped, I'm fine, a man helped me up - and I had the phone thanks to you, so I'd have been alright..." <br /><br />Mr F is no fool, so once he can see I fell but I'm ok, I tell him what happened. And I'm fine. "This time," he says. Yes. This time. Next time I'll be more careful. I sat down so casually when I got in but it was bloody hard going to get up and go to bed a couple of hours later. <br /><br />The nest day, rescue man comes to check up I am ok and it turns out that somewhere beyond the one track road there is a shooting range that is his business, hence the rather, uh, 'dynamic' stickers on his Landrover. Curmudgeonly neighbour says to me he probably only came round to make sure I wasn't going to put in a claim for falling over near his Landrover on the track. I don't do that, I say. But shooting things sounds like a lot of fun. <br /><br />I had 24 bruises in total. Impressive eh? Not for long. (Or for any EDS-er that wiggles more than a finger on a daily basis...). Mr F went paintballing the next weekend and beat me easily.Agent Fanghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17283954005767631627noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8211184.post-1158920951805618712006-09-22T11:17:00.000+01:002006-10-05T15:06:05.080+01:00Good ThingsI haven't had time to post at length about dog training yet, but that's ok, because I've only had one session. <br /><br />On other matters, I've been invited to a meeting next week. Access issues are usually a matter of course when you're working with other disabled people or organisations. The usual, "Do you have any access or dietary requirements" type e-mails go to and fro before these things and all the details are ironed out to ensure the meeting runs smoothly. I always make a point of being very clear about stuff like parking, level access for the wheelchair and so on. When it comes to the dietary requirements question, in hope and without fail, I always mention I have no special dietary requirements and I am able to eat almost, if not all types of biscuit. <br /><br />It is disappointing to say the least when the host does not pick up on this, but today I received an e-mail which contained this text and so gladdened my heart<br /><br />"I’ll make sure there are plenty of biscuits..."<br /><br />This is a good sign. People who understand biscuits usually make good partners. I am very much looking forward to a new partnership with some true biscuit afficinados!Agent Fanghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17283954005767631627noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8211184.post-1157475548927718922006-09-05T16:30:00.000+01:002007-01-30T18:08:39.030+00:00Second Dog Syndrome<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/94107349@N00/235064553/" title="Photo Sharing"><img src="http://static.flickr.com/89/235064553_7c462bbd74_m.jpg" width="180" height="240" alt="asleep" /></a><br /><br />You know how it goes (if you've acquired a second dog).<br /><br />You start to wonder where you left the lint rollers. The fur bunnies are growing in the corners of your house. There's furballs in your garden.<br /><br />You wonder why he doesn't like mushrooms, apple cores and marmite, until you realise that was exclusive to first dog and not a general everydog thing. <br /><br />You hear mysterious chewing sounds. You race to the vicinity of second dog. Second dog looks at you innocently. You know you'll find what he was chewing once he's finished chewing it, but until then there's nothing you can do.<br /><br />You dig out an item of clothing you bought after first dog died and haven't worn since getting second dog. There is fur on it.<br /><br />You remember how your house used to smell when it was dogless, but a big part of you doesn't care anymore.<br /><br />Occasionally, second dog farts. Alarmed, you rush round the house in case it is More Than That, because you don't know each other well enough yet to be certain he <em>just wouldn't.</em><br /><br />Long silences make you suspicious. What's he up to?<br /><br />Your best attempts to be furtive, spontaneous or use clever descriptive language for walks, feeding and playtimes fails miserably. Within a week second dog effortlessly knows <em>what</em> you are planning <em> when</em>. <br /><br />Everything nice at 'tail height' has to be moved. <br /><br />You wished you hadn't thrown out the 'designated spoon' when it comes to mixing up dog meat and biscuits.<br /><br />You are grateful that cheese still appears to have universal power across the dog world to evoke rapt concentration.<br /><br />Second dog falls asleep on your feet. You think 'Why did I wait so long to do this again?'Agent Fanghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17283954005767631627noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8211184.post-1156956315231735382006-08-30T16:54:00.000+01:002006-09-08T17:40:35.623+01:00Keep calm<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/94107349@N00/229241090/" title="Photo Sharing"><img src="http://static.flickr.com/96/229241090_b8e023c41d_m.jpg" width="240" height="219" alt="smudgeball" /></a><br /><br />For a long long time Mr F and I have wanted a dog. <br /><br />Now a dog has arrived! <br /><br />We knew if we became dog owners again it would have to be a carefully planned operation. It wouldn't be as simple as just picking up a puppy from somewhere and taking it home. I worried a lot about having a dog and being disabled. Could I walk it, control it, amuse it, look after it when I wasn't feeling well? Would it knock me over, struggle to get out of the front door, woof a lot when I needed to rest? Was it feasible to be a dog owner when I couldn't walk far and had daily pain and fatigue?<br /><br />We were determined to make it possible. For years and years we'd longed for another dog, having had a German Shepherd before I was disabled. During his lifetime my mobility impairment had a big impact on my interaction with him and he never, in his old age, got socialised to me using a wheelchair (as much from our inexperience with it, as anything). <br /><br />To add to this confusing change of circumstances, I didn't know <em>how</em> to be a disabled person at first (who does?) and all that it entails - sussing out living accomodation if it needs to change, getting the right access equipment, the job, the pain, fatigue, endurance and energy levels - just having a life again has taken me years to acomplish. With the move to the bungalow, and some stability in work, life has become easier. My head is in as much of the right place as it'll ever be. I'm pretty much resigned to knowing I'll never get everything right, 100% of the time. Still waiting for a better chair, but now as a powertrike owner I can go outside. <br /><br />Now seemed to be as good a time as any to start thinking about having a dog again. So we started looking. I found a good training school. And a good vets. And some good accessible pet suppliers. But a dog? Nothing. No breeders I found locally had any puppies. Now we'd decided for sure, the newpapers had no GSD's for sale. I wanted to make sure we got the right dog, with a good temperament for training, as I'd found an organisation called <a href="http://www.dogaid.org.uk/">Dog Aid</a> who I hoped would help me train the dog above and beyond what a general class could do. Dog aid were great, very friendly and helpful. They sent me an application pack. But nobody knew where I could get a dog.<br /><br />Then the universe provided. How we got him and why he's the right dog is another story for another day, as I'm overtired and having trouble thinking and writing clearly. In the build up to him coming to live with us, we were like two little kids, getting all excited and then telling each other to 'keep calm, keep calm' in high, breathless voices! In this blog I try to keep a focus on the side of my life that is affected by disability, so I really want to write about the things encountered as a woman becoming out as a dog owner again after becoming disabled. I can't promise there'll be no mushy stuff, but I'll try and make it incidental to the main points! <br /><br />But now I have to go, because I've told him I need regular breaks today to pace myself through the fatigue - and am being prompted to stop by the sound of a ball being dropped repeatedly near the safety gate. <br /><br />We've got a dog! Yay! (Keep calm).Agent Fanghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17283954005767631627noreply@blogger.com7