The Paralympics and Political Correctness

The sight of the London 2012 Olympic flame being extinguished last Sunday evoked a genuine sense of grief in me, as it no doubt did in people all over the world. My sadness was mostly due to the fact that two weeks of sensational sporting action, national unity, and respect between competitors (such an alien concept in a football-obsessed country like Britain) had come to an end. Then there was the patriotic pride which I simply couldn't suppress. Britain had staged the greatest show on earth without a major hiccup, and everyone - myself included - wished that they could somehow bottle up the profound optimism it had generated and take it with them like a sliver of Evenstar into the economic gloom.

Yet I couldn't help thinking that, by blowing out the Olympic candles before the Paralympics had even begun, the organisers had unconsciously conceded what most people probably believe to be true but are too afraid to say out loud: that the Paralympics are separate and inferior to the main event. The very name Paralympics is meant to signify a parallel event: separate, but equal.

So the flame is out, but the media nevertheless implores us all to keep the 'Olympic spirit' burning for another month. Gary Lineker signed off the BBC's coverage of the closing ceremony with an obligatory "bring on the Paralympics", despite the fact that his corporation won't even be broadcasting it on TV. Perhaps the BBC isn't doing so because it was criticised for its limited coverage of the 2010 Winter Paralympics, which it blamed on budget constraints and time zones instead of admitting that there is little appetite in Britain for watching disabled people compete athletically. I include myself in that.

Channel 4, the Paralympics broadcaster this time around, is promoting a cheeky #ThanksForTheWarmUp trend on Twitter as part of its advertising campaign, but a warm up for what? For a competition that, according to a late 2011 survey, only 18% of the British population are interested in watching on TV? How patronising can you get? And what about the 'Meet the Superhumans' advert that depicts wheelchair rugby players smashing into each other in slow motion? They are not super humans. They, like me - like all disabled people - are just living their lives as normally as possible. But God forbid the whole country doesn't marvel at how special these special athletes are and be REALLY EXCITED at the prospect of watching them in action. If you are genuinely excited, that's your right and I praise you for it, but don't feel pressured into feigning excitement. 

You might think that because I was born without legs I would take inspiration or even a sense of solace from watching the Paralympics, but the truth is I've never watched a minute of it in my life. And I'm not alone. The same survey also found that less than a third of disabled people intended to watch the London 2012 Paralympics, a figure which has no doubt risen on the back of Team GB's phenomenal success, but not by a great deal, I wager. Why is this number so low? I have no answer, being unable to even explain my own apathy. Perhaps it's because there are disabled people and then disabled people; that is, individuals who stand a chance at being athletic and individuals who unfortunately don't. 

Peter Hull, MBE

None of this scepticism diminishes in any way my respect for the Paralympians themselves, who are brilliant athletes and, arguably, the best role models society has to offer. My parents and I actually met Peter Hull when I was a baby, who went on to win 3 Gold medals (all with World Records) at the 1992 Barcelona Paralympics. My parents, keen for advice on how to raise a disabled child, travelled the length of the country to meet this inspirational man and were, unsurprisingly, very impressed by him. How anyone swims without arms or legs is beyond me. Maybe superhuman isn't too far wide of the mark when it comes to people such as he.

By the way, although I don't remember it, Peter Hull looked at me in my pram - looked at my arms - and said in a deadpan voice, "I could have done with a pair of those."

I can't write this blog post without briefly mentioning Oscar Pistorius. Again, he's a brilliant athlete who's living his dream, and I have nothing but admiration for him. BUT, that doesn't mean his participation in the Olympic Games was right. The issue for me isn't that his prosthetics might have given him an advantage over some able-bodied runners; it's that his very being there was yet another patronising attempt at making the competition all-inclusive at the expense of sporting quality; an attempt at blurring the natural line between Olympics and Paralympics. "We've got female boxers for the first time," the organisers seemed to say, "and look, we have a high-profile Paralympian competing, too. Aren't we liberal?" But they should use their common sense. Pistorius is the best Paralympian in the world - perhaps ever - and look where he finished in relation to the able-bodied runners.

It seems to me that many people treat the Paralympics in the same way they treat disabled people in general. They want to treat them as 'normal', while, at the same time, knowing in their hearts that they're different. They're not sure how to tread the line between patronising the disabled with unrealistic promises of inclusion and offending them by excluding them. I sympathise; it's a very delicate balance. What I will say, though, is that there's a difference between discrimination and simple honesty.

The media would do well to stop being politically correct about disability and trying to convince everyone that there's no difference in quality between the Olympics and Paralympics. I'm disabled and I take no offence whatsoever in anyone saying there is a difference between watching, say, Usain Bolt and watching the noblest, fastest blind runners in the world being led blindfold around a track on a leash so they don't collide with one another. Yet the determination of those Paralympians to win is beyond measure - probably far greater than Bolt's - and that's as much a part of the 'Olympic spirit' as physical perfection.

Thus, we should celebrate the obvious differences between the Paralympics and Olympics, rather than be afraid to acknowledge them. In my experience, disabled people really aren't that delicate.

Getting Around in a Wheelchair

Nine days out of ten, I forget I'm even disabled. How can this be? you may ask. Surely, being disabled is such a HUGE fact of life that it should occupy my every waking thought. Not so. Does an Asian person look in the mirror and think, 'Gosh, I'm Asian'? Does a woman marvel at how she's a woman, as opposed to a man?

Of course, it might be very different if you're someone who was born without a disability and has subsequently developed one. It's also a matter of degree, with your level of independence playing a large part in how 'disabled' you feel.

In fact, it's because I pay so little attention to my own disability that some of the most frustrating times in my life are those when I'm forcibly reminded of it by the thoughtlessness and incompetence of others.

I'm talking about the people who, when driving to their local corner shop, park directly in front of the only dropped kerb for 50 meters, thus forcing all wheelchair users (especially electric wheelchair users) to travel that distance along the road, often dodging oncoming traffic, to continue their journey. And, just to rub salt into the wound, as soon as you've finished the detour the #%@$&~} always, inevitably chooses that precise moment to drive away. I'm also, of course, talking about the people who designed the pavement that badly in the first place.

As with the Daleks above, one minute you're rolling along confidently - maybe you're meeting your friend at a restaurant - and the next you're made to feel like a second-class citizen simply because someone didn't think it was worthwhile to install a ramp. That's when the mirror is placed in front of you and it becomes painfully clear that you are different, despite your best efforts to be the same as everyone else. You're left with three options in that situation: struggle to get in without help, if that's even possible; suffer the indignity of asking someone for help, and calling your friend to cancel.

If every pub landlord, shop owner, hotelier and politician in the country was made to live for one week in a wheelchair, things would change quickly. Social mobility would take on a whole new meaning. As it is, it's impossible to put precisely into words how degrading situations such as the one I describe above can be for disabled people

Last January, I was staying at the St Giles Hotel in London and had to park my car in the attached NCP (Adeline Place). If I didn't have a wheelchair, I would never drive to London, but trains are a little awkward and as for the Underground...it'll be another century before that's universally accessible to wheelchair users. Car parks, though generally accessible in my experience, are not my favourite places, but this Adeline Place really pushes the boundaries for stupidity. Quite simply, when it was being built, some genius obviously decided to place the only elevator at the top of not one but two steep steps. As it happened, my family were there to help me on that occasion and I am more than capable of hopping out of my chair and ascending a couple of steps, but there are so many disabled people for whom this hurdle would have been too great.

If only it was a problem unique to Britain. Another time, I was crossing the Seine in Paris (possibly my favourite city in the world), when I realised with disgust that the bridge I had had the misfortune of getting on was only wheelchair accessible at one end - the other had a flight of stairs. It took me half an our to retrace my steps, find a new bridge, and finally cross the river. That's half an hour of my life I would very much like back.

Disabled people don't expect miracles. We know that the modern world isn't really modern at all but rather a culmination of centuries of old architecture and even older attitudes. I imagine that Shakespeare would feel more at home walking around twenty-first century London than I do - at least he could physically do it.

We know that we're a minority and that life's not fair, but would it have been so hard for the Parisian authorities to erect some sort of sign on the bridge indicating the flight of stairs? Could not a simple wooden ramp have been placed over those steps in the NCP? A little common sense really can go a long way.

I have a feeling that I'll be returning to this issue again soon.

Children and the Disabled

When was the last time you saw something for the first time? Unless you're a particularly adventurous person who experiences new things on a regular basis, a long time ago is probably the answer. By the age of, say, 25 most of us have seen an aeroplane in the sky (and can distinguish it from Superman), know what a tall building is, and can identify a disabled person.

The amazing thing about children is that they're genuinely seeing all of these things for the first time. Curiosity dominates their lives as they absorb more information in just a few years than we adults will absorb during the rest of our lives, and one of the things they're most curious about, it seems, is 'us'.

Having spent my entire childhood being pointed at by children of all ages (some more politely than others), it would be fair to say that I have developed a slightly wicked sense of humour when it comes to dealing with their attentions. When you're young, all you want to do is make friends and fit in, and while I was reasonably successful at doing the former, the latter never really happens when you don't have legs. There's nothing that makes you feel inexorably different quite like walking into the local corner shop to buy your weekly bag of sweets and hearing the words, "Dad, that boy's got no legs!" If I'd received a pound for every time I'd heard that, I'd be on a beach right now.

Although, on the plus side, I knew for sure that I had reached the coveted state of manhood when kids started to say, "Dad, that man's got no legs", and the occasional times when they still say "boy" is flattering to say the least.

To cope with being the centre of attention when out an about, one has to develop certain defence mechanisms. Mine has always been to make a game out of it. I would (and still do) roll into a shop or other public place where there were children and assess the situation immediately: how long before they notice me; will they notice me, and, most importantly, how long will it take for the accompanying parent(s) to realise my presence and think Oh no, how embarrassed will I be when my kid starts rudely pointing at that poor guy? I'm going to look like the parent who didn't open his child's mind to the world's infinite possibilities - a thought which is always betrayed by their faces.

I hope this doesn't sound cruel. I'm certainly not looking forward to such uncomfortable situations with my children in the future, but I'd like to think that one of the benefits of being disabled is that social tolerance will be fairly easy to teach them, with me being a living, breathing example of it. Perhaps that's a naive assumption, though. Anyway, it's amusing to see parents squirming in those situations.

One time, when I was seven, I was playing in the sandpit of a holiday caravan park. Three kids who were roughly the same age as myself approached the pit and, as they got in, the most observant one saw that I was moving myself around on my hands. He asked where my legs were. Oh, the possibilities! I always think to myself when that question arises. My girlfriend says she'd be so proud of me if I ever looked a child directly in the eyes and said "Crocodile"...but I'm too much of a coward. Or maybe I respect children and don't want to exploit their natural naivety. I confess it would be amusing to do so, though. After all, why stop at crocodile when I have a whole universe of vicious animals and tragic accidents at my disposal?

You think this is bad; you should see the other guy.

Back in the sandpit, I told the kid that I was a magician who had buried his legs in the sand and detached himself from them. He looked sceptical, so I went back to the spot where he had first seen me, took out my magic wand (a twig) and drew a magic circle around myself in the sand. Then I feigned effort and lifted myself up. The kids were amazed and asked excitedly if my legs were still under the sand. I assured them that they were and that they just needed to dig for them. Then I walked away.

When I peeked through the window of my caravan ten minutes later, those poor kids were still digging.

Being a no-legged kid wasn't always that fun, however. I used to shed many tears after being called names, even by my own brother when he was in a bad mood - kids can be cruel. But people can get used to anything. These days, I get enormous satisfaction from rolling quickly in my wheelchair down pavements and through museums, knowing full well that kids will get into trouble for running after me. It's such fun. I may be 25 but I'm still that seven-year-old playing in the sandpit at heart.

There are far too many similar incidents for me to include in this post, but perhaps other disabled people will want to use the comments section to share their own stories. I'm sure they'll all have in common that wonderful moment when a child's eyes just lit up for the briefest of moments as they became suddenly aware of a new possibility in the world; that there was a new adventure. God, I miss that feeling.

'The Undatables'

I thought I'd write a few lines in response to the new Channel 4 programme, 'The Undatables', seeing as it's clearly got the Twitterati going. I really should watch more TV, but there's usually not much on that interests me. On occasion, though, this means that I miss out on something good, and this might be one of those occasions.

Without having seen it, I think I can guess why a lot of people watch this programme (based on the article I read about it on the BBC website anyway) - it's to see some freaky-looking people, right? And to ask yourself, if you're able-bodied, Would I date that person? Don't worry, if the answer is no, that doesn't make you a bad person; just like, if the answer is yes, it doesn't make you a saint. The same rules apply to disabled people as everyone else: you're either attracted to them or you're not.

Speaking from, admittedly, limited personal experience, it is very difficult as a disabled person to date in the normal sense. Even if you get past the main obstacle of whether or not the other person would consider going out with you, you have transport, access (to buildings), privacy, and possibly mobility issues which inevitably get in the way a little bit however disabled you are. I can't begin to imagine how hard, not to mention humiliating, it must be for a person to go on a date with their parent or carer present - it's the sort of subjective experience that can never be fully expressed to another person.

My own 'dating' history in full: 1 corny love poem slid across a library desk when I was 17 to the girl I fancied in Sixth-Form = very polite rejection (this had nothing to do with me being disabled, I'm pretty sure); 1 very brief online 'friendship'; and 1 long distance relationship which is still going strong after 7 years. That's it.

An online, long distance relationship, I hear you cry; how typical of a disabled person. Maybe. Me and my partner often speculate about what would have happened had we met face to face, in school for example. I can honestly say I would have found her attractive, and she would have liked me too (though, as I said, she's not a saint!), but it really is just that - speculation. We'll never know what would have happened, so why worry about it? We're here now and that's what matters.

The first online 'friendship' I mentioned deserves a few words more. I put the word in inverted commas because I can't say for sure exactly what it was: a brief online relationship with a girl I randomly 'met' online or just someone I enjoyed chatting to like so many others at that time? I used to be one of those people who could hold 5 msn convserations simultaneously. One of the last times I chatted to her, though, was the day I first mentioned that I was born without legs. I can still see the blank conversation box and the little message saying she was writing her response, probably trying to compute what I'd just told her. She replied how shocked she was and not much else. Such was the silence (I could tell instinctively that everything had changed) that I asked her, "Do you still like me?" And she replied "Not as much as I used to - half as much".

It's nice to know that one's legs truly are half of one's entire being.

I can laugh about it now, but it was crushing at the time. But that's my experience of the world. People are obsessed with externals, and how can I blame them? I am as well. The internet is a medium through which unsociable people can be sociable, introverts extroverts, and disabled people 'normal people'. It's a world where most of 'us', if we choose the right profile picture, can interact with people without our disability being an issue, unless we want it to be, of course. I for one use a head and shoulders photo 99% of the time, but I think that's going to change. My disability is an important part of who I am and I'm not ashamed of it - nor should any other disabled person be.

Incidentally, when I first told my girlfriend that I was legless all those years ago, she said something along the lines of, "Cool! Actually I have a lot more respect for you now."

On a final note, the obstacles don't end just because the person decides to go on a date with you, or decides that they like you 'in that way'. They actually begin at that point. For me, disability is about not being able to hold Kat's hand as I 'walk' down the pavement with her, without accidentally running over her foot and getting a slap on the arm that is. It's not being able to get something out of a high shelf for her, or change the batteries in the smoke alarm. Most physically disabled people, I think, once they've reached their mid twenties, have accepted that they're probably not going to walk on the moon, but they should never resign themselves to a lifetime of being romantically alone. There are 7 billion people out there and 7 billion is an even number, not an odd one.

The Funny Side of Disability

Fortunately (or unfortunately, depending on your point of view), my life is about as ordinary as most "normal" peoples' lives. Aside from having a few more doors held open for me - which is most appreciated, by the way - I'm glad to report that people in general treat me like a regular citizen of the world.

However, I can think of a few anecdotes to regale you with - experiences that went beyond the usual handshake and pat on the back I get from strangers. There was that guy by the Duomo in Florence, for instance, who genuflected when he saw me. Then there was the young drunk man I met in Bournemouth over ten years ago (drunk or high people react very amusingly around me - perhaps they think I'm a figment of their hallucinations) who performed a cross between a high-five and a hand shake on me, without saying anything at all.

It's enough to make you feel famous.

For me, the world is teeming with half-strangers. I'm sure you know what it's like to run into one of your old teachers and have them remember (as only teachers seem to do) exactly what your name is and the names of your brothers and sisters whom he or she also taught. If you happen to have no legs, though, the effect is doubled. Everyone seems to remember you. Even the old guy down the road whom your mother chatted to while you sat in your pram. Random people wave at me all the time with expressions of genuine recognition on their faces. I wave back, of course, out of politeness, feeling bad that I don't remember them.

More recently, I was in central London waiting for my brothers and mum to come out of a Mcdonalds when I became aware of a female traffic warden coming towards me. At first, I thought she was just going to walk past, but then she stopped right in front of me and said: "Good morning. If I offered you something, would you accept it?" I asked what it was and she said, "Some money - ten pounds..." "No, no thank you, I'm not homeless - my family are just in Mcdonalds there".

When I'm out and notice someone giving me a sympathetic look, I have this habit of looking at my reasonably pricey wristwatch so they don't think me homeless, so I did that on this occasion.

"If I don't give it to you," she continued, "I'll have to give it to someone else." "No, but thanks very much."

To which she pulled out a white envelope, placed it in my hand and walked off without saying another word. I watched her disappear down a side road, still not quite believing what had happened. I mean, a generous traffic warden - what are the chances of that? Where had this angel been when I received a parking ticket for being in a disabled space but with my blue badge facing the wrong way? I really could have used her then.

Sure enough, in the envelope was a crumpled ten pound note. I told my family about it and we had a good laugh over our calorie-packed breakfast. Traffic warden jokes never get old.

I still have that tenner. Maybe I'll frame it some day. Would she have given it to someone else? Probably. She seemed a lovely lady and I'd have much preferred a friendly chat to charity - one human being to another. Charity seems to be the default response to disabled people, which isn't necessarily a bad thing. After all, many of 'us' need help in life, and I'm certainly no exception to that rule. I just wasn't on this occasion.

That's got to be my weirdest experience of being in a wheelchair. If you're out there, traffic warden lady, thanks so much for the cash, but next time please just come up and say hello. There are plenty of homeless people in London to give your money to.

Tony Nicklinson: A Woolfian Argument

The big news story today is that of Tony Nicklinson's victory in getting his right-to-die case heard at the High Court.

For those of you who haven't yet read about Mr Nicklinson, he is a 58-year-old gentleman who suffers from Locked-in Syndrome, a condition whereby, due to a stroke, one is left physically paralysed but mentally intact. For the film lovers among you, it's a condition that was very poignantly portrayed in The Diving Bell and the Butterfly, starring Mathieu Amalric.

I have read about Mr Nicklinson today for the first time and even heard him 'speak' on BBC Radio 5 - very powerful stuff. His plight once again raises the controversial debate over what constitutes murder and what is a merciful, dignified death in twenty-first century Britain.

As it happens, my partner is a rehabilitation nurse who cares for a remarkable man who also suffers from Locked-in Syndrome. He has been making excellent progress since she first met him, but there will always be a limit to how much he and other sufferers will ever improve.

Like Tony Nicklinson, the only person who truly knows his quality of life is him.

It all comes down to quality of life and self-determination. Taking the first one, I am a 'disabled' person who happens to enjoy a very high quality of life, but that might be because I've never known anything different. People say to me all the time what a shame it is that I was born without legs, but I always tell them to save their pity for someone paralysed in a wheelchair. There was a young rugby player about ten years ago, I recall, who was paralysed below the waist by a bad tackle. Shortly afterwards, he went to Dignitas in Switzerland to die... Now, I believe that he had much to live for, with full use of his upper body, but that's just me. I can't even begin to imagine the shock of being an athletic young man one minute and someone who is confined to a wheelchair the next, so I can't and won't judge him.

Sometimes being 'disabled' is difficult to live with. Across the huge spectrum of disability, from blindness, to Locked-in Syndrome, what's lost is far more than just a physical or mental function: the constant need for assistance means one loses absolute control over one's own life. Mr Nicklinson has lost this in the worst possible way. His condition means that he does not even have control over whether he lives or dies, a power which most people possess, but, thankfully, never have to use.

In this over-legalistic world we live in, severely disabled people are denied this fundamental human right. The UN values national self-determination, it seems, but what about individual? I know the counter argument: you can't have greedy relatives or malicious doctors going around legally murdering people, but those are the sensationalist cases.

For me, Tony Nicklinson's case is not a grey area. It's black and white. He is able to communicate his thoughts and feelings, to express that he has no quality of life and his wish to end it. Were he able to kill himself, he would; but he can't, and the law will almost certainly rule against him as it has ruled against every other person (to my knowledge) who has made the same attempt in Britain.

So where does Virginia Woolf come into all this? Almost a century ago, she wrote something which I feel is appropriate here: 'Death was defiance. Death was an attempt to communicate, people feeling the impossibility of reaching the centre which, mystically, evaded them; closeness drew apart; rapture faded; one was alone. There was an embrace in death' - Mrs Dalloway. I'm not suggesting that Woolf would have been in favour of assisted suicide per se, but she clearly believed, both in her writing and her life, that individuals should control their destinies rather than be relentlessly powered over by the legal and medical establishments. Woolf's novel teaches us that life is entirely subjective, that we and only we know what it's like to live inside our own bodies. What gives anyone else the right to control me? Who voted for that?

Tony Nicklinson's fight is for all of us. We're all a blood clot away from ending up like him.

Department Stores

One of the best (and worst) things about being in a wheelchair is that you get to see on a regular basis just how insane the world really is.

I was in a department store the other day and I couldn't for the life of me navigate my way around it, such was the layout. The clothes racks were positioned so close together that I simply couldn't squeeze between them without my wheels making contact with those nice, crisp, brand new shirts.

Next time you're in a department store, take a look at this and ask yourself, 'if I was in a wheelchair, could I get through that gap without making a mess?' Now, I understand we're a minority and shops have to to be crammed full of stock to make a profit, but come on. Use your common sense. I'm sure if it had been a wet day and I'd been rolling through mud, and my wheels had spoilt a load of clothes, that I'd have been made to pay for it. Maybe I should do just that as a protest - nah.

I really think that imparting a bit of wheelchair wisdom to these corporations is my calling - I could charge a fair bit whilst making the world a better place.

Preliminary Observations

While I enjoy commenting on a wide range of issues, it's true (as I've been reliably informed) that my area of 'expertise' should be telling people about the life of a disabled person.

There's my first generalisation, for what exactly is a 'disabled person'? Is he or she physically incapacitated in some way; have they been born with only one arm; or were they involved in a horrible accent? Does this person have a learning difficulty, or, after enjoying 70 years of perfect health, has their knee, eyesight, hearing, heart given way? Society would classify all such individuals as 'disabled' - a term which my girlfriend thoroughly objects to - but we must remember that their needs and experiences of life are totally unique.

To the eyes of the world, I am disabled. One hundred per cent - born without legs in fact, though the doctors didn't know why at the time (maybe after 25 years they do now; maybe I should find them and ask them!), but the world isn't a silent, totally black place for me like it might be to a blind or a deaf person, nor is it an electric wheelchair from which there is no escape.

I realise, therefore, that, while I can give you my perspective on disability (sometimes serious; often comic), it is my own unique perspective. I do not claim to speak for all 'disabled' people. However, I also believe that every 'disabled' person would strike on some common themes if they did the same thing - their narratives would overlap ever so slightly, and I can only hope that mine will do so as well.

To begin, one of the things I've noticed about so-called disabled people is that they have an unspoken 'understanding' with one another. I walk (or push myself in my wheelchair) through a shopping centre or other public place and fellow wheelchair users will give me 'the nod'. This is a strange but universal phenomenon, I've found, for it has happened to me in the U.K, Australia, as well as the 'comfortable, convenient, friendly disabled waiting areas' of the many international airports I've frequented. This nod - a slight inclination of the head, often accompanied by an attempt at eye contact - appears to mean 'Hey, mate, how's it going? I KNOW HOW YOU FEEL. We're brothers in disability'. Or words to that effect.

I haven't got a big problem with 'the nod'. I'm not one of those 'disabled' people who tries to avoid other 'disabled' people because they somehow break the illusion of my own independence (although I think we're all prone to doing that from time to time). Seriously, though, what makes these people think I'm 'one of them'. Just because I'm sitting in a wheelchair and am clearly missing a couple of legs? A wheelchair, after all, can be a quirky fashion accessory.

What I prefer is when someone on crutches who has been injured, or someone pushing somebody else in a wheelchair for what might be the first time, comes over to me and says 'I never appreciated my 'ability' (as opposed to 'disability'), but now I do; you only miss independence when it's taken from you'. Those moments are nice, because they contain an important moral which I'm not ashamed to repeat here - enjoy your life, enjoy everything you're capable of doing while you can. I've often dreamt of running around a field as fast as I can, but I know that I'll never be able to this. Then again, if I'd been born with legs, I'd probably put them up on the desk, drink my can of coke, and watch TV like lots of able-bodied people do - who knows?

But 'the nod' - just don't. I have nothing in common with you other than that I'm in a wheelchair. I will treat you with the exact same courtesy as an Olympic athlete - no more, no less - so please return the favour.

Surprised by my irreverent attitude to disability? I surprise myself sometimes.