Richmond – Kingston – Return
I have a confession to make. Yes, another one. I’m not a great time keeper. Actually, I’m a terrific time keeper. I can go hours without looking at a clock and still know pretty well what time it is (except when watching paint dry when time stops, obviously) What I mean is I’m often running late. The problem, essentially, is that being dependent on wheelchairs, ramps, people and a myriad of other aids, there is so much scope for things to go wrong and slow me down, and once this happens I don’t have the capacity or capability to go a bit faster, to put my coat on faster, or gather my things, so the chances of me making up time are really small. Why don’t I just start earlier I hear you ask. My logical brain can cope with this no problem. Unfortunately my primeval brain is very strong and knows that logical brain is pulling a fast one, so just carries on regardless. I’m sure Freud would have something enlightening to say, but it wouldn’t change the fact that once again I missed my train!
This wasn’t a huge issue, I simply caught an alternative bus. It’s not perfect, but it’s relatively easy and the scenery is always more interesting than the suburban train ride.
The return trip coincided with the end of the school day. It was between trains so I again opted for the bus. This time, however, it was somewhat fuller. Now, the thing about this particular wheelchair space was that it was big enough for me and a buggy, but since there was no buggy on the bus the space filled with people, specifically teenage school kids. I don’t have a problem with most of them. Sure they were a bit noisy, but it was kind of fun to listen to the tales of angst and crises that I left behind many moons ago. But there was one particular generous individual that I could quite happily have strangled. For over half the journey he stood behind me coughing and sneezing. I could almost see the hairy germs with their fanged teeth and bug eyes flying through the air just looking for a way to infect me and any other potential victim. Sadly, as is so often the case, as a wheelchair user the option to move just doesn’t exist. Of course faced with the option of catching some dreadful bug or confronting the young man I did what every other true Englishman would do in this situation. I sat quietly, seethed, and tried not to breathe. There was even some mild Tutting.
My righteous indignation seems to have effectively fought off the onslaught as I’m still breathing clearly. I wonder if I can get Beachams to market this as a winter cold defence?