My good buddy sends me a link to an article by the BBC entitled ‘Dirty Talk for Blind People’. In the hope this may be a new government benefit cobbled onto my income support, I read it eagerly. It is however a discussion about what kinds of erotica and pornography are available for people with disabilities….. ’discerning’ people with disabilities that is (this being a BBC article) …and it turns out not a lot.
‘Society’s reluctance to accept disabled peoples sexuality is perhaps based on a deep-rooted but unspoken belief that they should not reproduce.’
Yeah well and ho hum…
Having already posted here of my murky albeit brief slide into selling phone sex https://tanvirbush.com/2009/01/phoney-sex/ I am not surprised by the lack of imagination when it comes to erotica for women let alone disabled people. (oh hell..just realised you probably don’t know about this Dad…errr.. opps. It just paid better then the bingo calling…Goodness, I must make you so proud!)
I worked once with a brilliant young and very sexy TV presenter who, due to his being stuck in a wheelchair, was not able to find any kind of serious presenting work outside of ‘Disability Rights shows in UK. He was in constant pain but said he had discovered a remarkable way of controlling and converting the pain through a form of Japanese bondage. I believe he eventually made it to the States and is fronting a show on cable about such things. Now THAT would be a more watchable form of ‘The X Factor’ surely
Personally I think there would be a fantastic market for erotic tactile pop-up books. They could have plug in audio although might be tricky reading them subtly on the train……
‘How many times have you been shat on by a bird?’ My friend M is gingerly swiping the top of his head with his hand. Its only water dripping from the overhead pub awning but still he looks across at me, his eyes darkening.
‘Well, how many?’ He is insistent and I note his fist is clenched.
Startled I shake my head. ‘Errr …nefariously onceI think. Splashed in passing. ‘
‘Yes yes,’ M leans forward. ‘That’s the usual response.’ His breath comes out in a hiss. ‘And how many times do you think I have been shat on..? ‘
‘Err …’
‘Eighteen!’ He blurts out wildly.
‘What!!’
‘Eighteen times! ‘
‘But… surely that’s not possible…. ?’
He slumps back on the bench, his handsome face pale, his terrible secret out. ‘Once it even happened twice…. in the same day.’
I gasp. That’s less the odds on a lightning strike!
We sit silently for a moment sucking on warm beer. I glance, with a phoney casual pretend flicking of my hair, at the sky over his head. Its empty but I still feel we are being watched.
Could it be the same bird every time? I am imagining some serious starling vendetta or a love-sick tern but he tells me that it started way back when he was a child and a bird managed to spatter him through the open roof of a car. (That takes some serious co-ordination and aim.) Ever since then he has been regularly ‘blessed’. Its even been caught on camera, on film.
Birds poo on this man.
‘Its lucky.’ I am trying to be up beat. He sighs. I think he has heard that one before. ‘Good thing pigs can’t fly..’ I think.
M has taken me out to this London pub after a long day’s photographic workshop and he is actually doing a very fine job of distracting me from my current state of emotional stir-fry as I have just made a decision that might completely change my already rather baffling life. I am going with the Guide Dog.
I met her on Tuesday. I went out to the car to greet her expecting the usual gorgeous, dewy-eyed beast and out lolloped a stocky, black and brown grinning mutt acutely resembling a small rottweiller. I sat on the pavement and we bashed heads in greeting. The trainer, a stern woman with a skin tanned to leather, was all action and within seconds I took up the handle on the dog’s harness. The dog confused, looked around a couple of times for the trainer who insisted, in that ghastly British way, on calling herself the dog’s ‘mum’ as in; ‘ she’ll keep looking for her ‘mum’ so you will have to use your voice to push her forward.’ I do and the dog shrugs and we are off.
We walk the block passing interested neighbours and disinterested cats and the dog happily snuffles and galumphs and tail wags her way ahead of me. Later back at the flat she is splayed out on the floor and my feet. Her ears are soft and cool, dark brown. She snores.
Taking on a working dog is incredibly tough. There will be three weeks immersion training in a crumbling hotel in darkest fenland with visitors restricted and no access to a decent pub to start with. If I survive the training, then there will be six months adjusting to my local routes..except there isn’t time because I start my MA course in October. She will have to commute back and forth to Bath with me and sit under formica tables on nylon carpets bored out of her mind whilst I attend lectures and indulge in endless conversations about composition and structure.
She will need feeding, cleaning, pooper scooping, walking every day.
And she’s not a pet. She’s a working dog. I won’t be able to nip off for a few days. I won’t be able to stay in bed all Sundays. And I will have to think twice about all my plans for the rest of my life.
And my blindness will be ‘official’. Bollocks.
Interestingly several people including M, are confused. ‘Do you really need a guide dog?’ they ask. ‘You seem to get around fine with chutzpah and cane. ‘
Then, ‘ Won’t you stop using your useful vision as you start relying on the dog?’
And I can’t answer either of those questions and I suppose all these things will become apparent during the training.
But I do know I need help and could certainly do with some animal magic and am immensely lucky to have been even given the chance to learn a new skill and find a new route through the world.
So I just say ‘lets do it.’
You will not find your mission by standing still. The way to find it is by challenging yourself in something – I would almost say it does not matter what. Then by making consistent effort, the direction you should take will open up before you quite naturally, just as wide new horizons before someone walking up a hill. Little by little you will come to understand your mission. That is why it is so important to have the courage to ask yourself what it is you should really be doing now, at this very moment. Daisaku Ikeda; President of the Sokka Gakkai International ‘Prayer Flags’ (c) T. Bush And by the way, the brown dog with the small, smiling, gold eyes, dodgy eyebrows and velvet ears is called Grace and I know I could always do with more of that!
I started off today with a skip to my step Tonight I cook paella for some friends. I love the stuff and as I I was given a paella pan for my birthday am keen to experiment
The shopping list is long and I have already failed with the prawns and am having to improvise with frozen seafood cocktail. I came early to this huge supermarket to avoid the crowds but my sight is blurry and I am can’t find anything and consequently I run over time. The supermarket fills with fretting families and fast-walking weekly-shop wannabies. I have my cane out but no one understands its significance and it just gets in the way of pushing a trolley. I am beginning to bash people.
Sorry sorry
Opps
Oh you go..no me. Oh ok..oh shit …
Sorry..
I need to get out now and am scanning frantically trying to find someone who can help. Unfortunately this bloody supermarket has kindly chosen to dress their stuff in understated grey and blue fleeces with the tiny logos embroidered discreetly on their chests. I can’t tell who is staff and who is shopper.
I hit the bread aisle at about 20mph and knock several stacks of prebake bagels to the floor. A woman tutts so loudly more bagels slide to the floor. By the cheese aisle I am flagging, consider abandoning it all and cancelling supper but finally there is someone who looks morose enough to be staff and is wearing a set of key cards around their neck. I ask for chicken stock.
‘Aisle 4,’ she says and then asks if I need any more help.
‘No, no absolutely fine thanks.’ My upper lip quivers then stiffens.
I turn away with purpose but am immediately confused. I scan and scan for aisle numbers and then start running, shoving and dodging past people thinking ‘I know- I’ll just count from Aisle 1.’
Not in this shop sister.
I try being logical twice and only succeed in finding deodorant and bath gel.
And then I see the chicken aisle. I rush forward thinking that I can grab the stock and be out of here in five blurred minutes.
I peer up at the top shelf and can see the large plastic containers and exuberantly grab the first. What I do not see is that the first is attached to the second and the second to the third and so on.
I bring down an entire shelf of chicken stock.
Three of the plastic containers burst open splashing their yellow brown contents all over the floor, the shelves, my legs and the trainers of the man standing ..now leaping backwards..next to me.
I look at him aghast and only then discover that he is absolutely gorgeous. Tall, dark intelligent eyes, shoulders to lean on and damn him, damn him..a dimple. He has said something like ‘oh dear’ quietly and kindly and looks to see if I am all right. There is my opportunity to make contact, to start something beautiful and what do I do.. I look down at our legs dripping chicken broth and say with a ghastly giggle (it’s the one I do when I meet someone I am attracted to. It is unfailingly unnerving) ‘We’re going to smell really ‘fowl’. And then I do a kind of eye brow ‘taa daa!’.
The man’s face freezes slightly and I turn pink with embarrassment spinning around to try and wave down a helpful staff member ..when I turn back I see he has escaped. I catch a fleeting glance of his back disappearing into the veggie aisle.
I stick by the mess I have made, feeling anxious as hordes of people keep pushing their trollies through it. I don’t know why I don’t walk away ..but I don’t and moronically stand for over ten minutes directing people around the pooling mess suddenly realising that the chicken stock looks suspiciously pee like and with guilt written all over my sweaty face people are drawing their own conclusions. Eventually a man with a blue fleece, a sour expression and a yellow ‘spillage’ notice comes into my vision and I nod politely and flee.
‘Can you go slowly? I’m visually impaired’, I ask at the check out. My hands are shaking.
‘Do you want help packing then?’ Whinges the man. ‘See there is a queue and we can’t have you holding other people up….’
I am watching a juvenile blackbird. She is incredibly excited having recently discovered the concept of flying and launches herself at everything with huge enthusiasm but seems to have still a bit of a problem with depth perception. She doesn’t care though. She’s just kind of..well …‘plummeted’ from the roof, smacking into the top of the fence and whammed down onto the grass popping back up, yellow beak high, with a Russian gymnast’s flourish Ta daaa! . It’s bloody glorious!
It makes me feel better which is good as I am sore. At 8:30 this morning, I, a woman with a truly pathological fear of needles, find myself desperately trying to console a near hysterical Irish nurse called Maureen.
‘Its okay.’ I say soothingly. ‘ Really. I had a riding accident when I was nine. My veins are tricky on that arm… ‘Here you go..’. I slowly and without making direct eye, in case she bolts like a lunatic horse, lower my right arm to within range of her glinting needles, twitching in her shaking hands. .
‘Here you are Maureen..how about this arm. There you go…’ I proffer my remaining arm hoping my relaxed and expansive attitude will stop her hyperventilating.
20 minutes later I am forced to suggest I lie down to stop myself from passing out. Strangely I am still relatively calm.
‘OK..got all you need now?’ I ask kindly not looking at the bruising spreading up to my armpits. ‘Please stop apologising..please. Your weeping is shaking the examination table. ‘
Seriously the worst blood lett..I mean ‘taking’ I have had in many years. She even managed to put the sticky plaster on the wrong parts of both elbows.. I didn’t even get a sodding lollipop. At home I had to lie down for 45 mins until I could raise my arms above my head again. Thank goodness I don’t earn a wage as a shot putter.
It’s nothing serious. I am still trying to figure out why I am always so knackered and am sure it is not just that my eyesight makes things ‘soooo’ much harder. I mean for Gawds sake! Other people cope with much more then this…and only a few years ago I was bloody running my own charity in Zambia..so come on! I am hopeful for a strange and exotic Zambian parasite feeding on my guts… or a strange brain fever. How about consumption? That’s relatively romantic. But NOT bloody ‘ tired eye syndrome’.. Hell!
Anyway..on the very up side , I have had a call about a potential guide dog. It is all very coy. I get to meet her (she’s a black and tan Retriever/Labrador bitch) in a couple of weeks with a chaperon on hand (for the dog…not me) and then make a decision if I want to carry on to the three week immersion training in August. She will have to like me too- after all she is worth a hell of a lot more then I. Guide dogs are specially bred for smarts and wit and start training at 6 weeks old. They start professional guiding at 2 years old and have to have the best food and vet treatment until and during their retirement five years later. I on the other hand was a rubbish toddler,..well lets not even mention potty training..bad student, fail every mathematical test I’ve taken and spell sideways..plus I have dodgy medical treatment and self medicate with gin and tonic. I don’t have a pension.
The dog is younger then me better looking and probably has more friends on her Facebook page. Bitch. Yes. Quite.
My first thought was, would you believe… ‘Is it going to impact on my love life?’
Oh stop bloody laughing. I did ONCE have one..a long time ago in a galaxy far far away. It is still possible, I’ve seen ‘How Stella Got he Groove Back.’ I’ve seen ‘Amalie’..more appropriately I’ve seen all the ‘Shrek’s’ and all the ‘Aliens’. However pitching up led by a Guide Dog..? Relatives – especially those still gunning for grandchildren – say ‘Oh Tanvi, the right man will look PAST the dog.’ Yeah right. Us ‘disableds’ (to coin a Zambian expression of note) know that that right man doesn’t exist. Many blokes (sorry..he/she or transgendered) are going to be put off by 1. a fear that others will see them as ‘lesser’ for going out with a ‘lesser’ person or even see it as a way of getting other women (men/ transgendered) by being seen as ‘compassionate’. (I’m not being daft here.. Sadly I talk from direct experience) , 2. a fear that they might have to keep plucking the ‘disabled person’ from burning buildings, traffic accidents, exploding toilets blah blah. 3. or worse want to rescue us from our own cynical angst. Me? Cynical angst? C’est moi mojo n’est pas? 4. or ..and unfortunately (and yes I know I haven’t had much luck with blokes –) be rather too interested in the dog.
‘Noir’ (c) T. Bush (all other images from internet)
But strangely and out of the blue I still want to be open for the possibility. It’s partly the weather: concrete-cracking heat, humidity at 60% and storms like tiny, black smoke signals gathering on the horizon. Its also in part the fact that I have absolutely no idea what might happen next in my life. I am totally free falling. And i love the feeling and I bloody love storms! And that’s the problem. Stormy heat and a completely unreadable future does up my level of erotic greediness and that addictive and bizarre compulsion for romance. Call it the ‘Year of Living Dangerously’ syndrome.
Oh – the lovely ‘Lemonade Award’ from marvellous Val from Monkeys On the Roof.. I need to nominate ten blogs with attitude and gratitude.
Therefore the following blogs are officially nominated:
Tinku Tales
Velo Gubbed Legs
Siren Voices
Epicblogue
Fleeing Muses
Fush and Chips
123 I Love You
Up The Hill Backwards
The Gold Puppy
The Times Of Miranda
I want to wish my blogger friend The Gold Puppy much much love and strength. And she of Times Of Miranda much joy with the new baby.
My birthday weekend was lovely, remarkably sweet and chock full of splendid people, venison burgers, vegan salads and Cava by the bucket. Massive thanks to the inebriated vicar who provided all the scrumptious food and the calm and careful Mum and John who helped me set up the garden and did the never-ending Sunday brunch.
‘Sally on Sunday’ (c) T. Bush
On Monday, the remnants of the guests staggered blearily off to catch trains and buses and I took out the last bag of rubbish and by Tuesday I wanted everyone to come back again. Post party depression they call it.
On the train home from London yesterday the evening sky was moody blue and punch drunk with early summer storms. I was feeling sad and shy, evading the commuter’s incurious cow like gaze behind my dark glasses and wondering, as always when I feel so scared by my overindulgent English spinsterhood, if there was anywhere in the world I might actually be of use.
What if I used my birthday money (supposedly set aside for my dental surgery) and jumped ship to join forces with some romantic cause like the dark Lord Byron, Che, Lorca, Sampson or Sacajawarea …you won’t have heard of the last two..they’re a chicks and we know most history was written by men; some with remarkably small penii and huge imaginations..(The Trojan army was HOW big?)
Then again you might only have heard of Sacajawea because of the film ‘Night at the Museum’. If this is true I cannot judge…I am also this culturally inadequate but I am losing my drift net-all rubbish line of thought.
What can I really offer with no technical skills and no languages? Would I be useful getting a flight to Tehran and offering hugging ‘aww let it all out’ services to the Guardians in the hope that they suddenly feel less uptight and nuclear and more prepared to chat about it all. Or a quick dash across the border to North Korea to see if there is anyone in the militia who want to try permaculture, sustainable living and local trading systems. It’s really very good for drought proof vegetables. .
Anyway – just so you know I got for my birthday – amongst other marvellous things from jewellery to paella pans, sunflowers, martini glasses and Buddhist prayer bead – a subscription to a ‘blog redecoration service’. They are going to help make my blog site funky and more enticing which is a good thing because you may have noticed I have been slacking off badly and indeed was thinking of pulling the plug – this will be the much needed ‘re-boot in the behind’ to get me writing consistently again! It may take a few weeks but please do let me know what you think!
Also before I go to closing party photos – do check out ‘Siren Voices’. http://sirenvoices.blogspot.com He is a paramedic who writes up his strange encounters with such tender, mesmerising prose his blog quickly becomes addictive. Real modest, melancholy genius.
And thank you VAL from ‘Monkeys on the Roof’ for passing to me the Lemonade blog award! Whoo hoo! More on that next time.
And lastly farewell to the deeply troubled, brilliant and tragic Mr. Jackson. My childhood would have been strangely empty without some of your music.
I was born on Midsummer’s Day in 1969, which makes this Sunday a rather large birthday. I think I am finally on top of the dizzying G-force effect of hurtling through time towards an age which tops Zambia’s life expectancy….which occurs the first time you actually realise that no one will ever call you ‘young woman’ again ….and which gets you ‘that look’ when people ask you if you have children and you reply ‘not yet.’
I did initially decide to hide under my bed weeping for the year but luckily have been convinced a celebration of survival, friendship and family might be appropriate and would certainly involve more sparkling wine.
I had wonderful birthdays as a pre boarding school child. My mum and dad would organise amazing fancy dress parties with themed food and remarkable cakes. Once – when I was obsessed with The Arabian Nights – we had a party with Ali Baba and the 40 Thieves, Sheherezade (my own personal spelling) , Turkish delight, storytellers and pink and blue rice. My pal Sasha, dressed as Sinbad had a long wooden recorder attached to a huge stuffed snake in a man sized reed basket. He would play the recorder and gradually pull the string and therefore pull up the snake and we would all fall about with hysterics.
Sadly I don’t have those photos but as a teenager in the late Madonna infested ’80’s there was the infamous ‘Poseur and Tart Party’ we threw one holiday….’High School Musical’ it was most DEFINITELY not..but the less said about that the better…
ehmm…moving swiftly on…
Later my birthday was always mid exams…until my third year and my 21st birthday when my beautiful friend (she of the barge) bought tickets for Glastonbury. My parents sent a side of smoked salmon and two bottle of champagne and we guzzled them in most unhippy fashion in the Fiat Panda stuck in the three hour-long queue to the entrance. We arrived in the dark and I, desperate for a pee, leapt out and ran to a corner of the field and squatted down just as the battalion of parking attendants directed the next slew of cars to my very spot. In a thousand headlights my bare bottom was lit up like the full moon. My friend nearly stopped breathing she was laughing so hard….
When I turned 30 there was a total eclipse of the sun. In Zambia, in the bush on dad’s hill, with a motley collective of marvellous friends and several tourists weighted down with binoculars, cameras and special glasses, we waited and sure enough at 3pm in the afternoon a huge eagle and flocks of birds suddenly flew towards us to roost and the sun was eaten. It was a mind blowing, terrifying, humbling three full minutes of unearthly shadows and the strangest silence and even the dogs stopped howling. As we gazed at the blackened sun with its flaming, exploding aura there was a slight coughing sound and then a man behind us started singing ‘Happy Birthday.’ Dad had chosen that very moment to light the candles of my melting birthday cake.
The sun came back (phew) and the euphoria carried us for weeks.
Tomorrow my big sister is preparing lovely food, my Mum and John will be over from France and the garden will be full of friends and family. In the evening those still standing will go to the pub.
I will, at some point, toast Teelo and other absent friends and have a bit of a wail but someone will pick me up, brush me down and hand me a shot of tequila and onwards and upwards to more adventures, more love and maybe many more birthdays! A toast to all my readers and if any of you are near Cambridge this weekend do come along! All images (c) T. Bush and family
Wonder what’s going to happen in Iran. It would seem the encrusted sandal of the religious right is about to crush any spark of reform. Do we hope for revolution or do we wish for people to stay safe and hide inside? Image from internet
From the Sunday sunshine of a Cambridge morning with doves cooing and church bells in the distance, a country fair on the green with the sweet smell of fried onions and burnt sugar on the breeze, riots, rage, death and demonic demagogues seem far, far away….
Having wafted off into an advert for the English tourism board I do have to pull back and have a rather serious perturbed winge about the state of play here in UK. After all how can we stand up against the sleaze and toothless, pink faced sweaty stupidity of the British National Party, shake fists at the greed of the banks, demand equality for all when at the same time condoning the vast gluttonous indulgence of the football industry. Ronaldo is transferred for 80 million and on a salary of £500,000 a week. This vain, young man may well be a great athlete, he may well have come from a tin hut in some mosquito ridden favela but please don’t fall for the line that this gross amount of money is a ‘symbol’ of hope for the oppressed masses hoping that they too one day will rise from their hovels to kick a ball in Manchester, marry some botoxed apparition, get embroiled in some ugly rape scandal, and disappear off at the age of 35 into broadcasting obscurity and alcoholism. That gross amount of money is purely that. Gross. Image from internet
Anyway I withdraw growling and fully aware that greed is what makes the West go around and around and my firm belief that no one in the world should be able to earn more then £100,000 a year is never going to be popular..
And it’s sunny… So quit thy harridan’s witter woman.
Actually there were a couple of endings this week. On Tuesday the photographic workshops came to the close of the first phase. The participants had selected a photo and we had made them each posters and the ensuing exhibition was joyful in the extreme. Their friends, family and colleagues wandered around the room continuously saying how astounded they were. how they had never imagined that blind and visually impaired people could take such remarkable shots (sorry i can’t show you yet but I hope soon some will be on an on -line exhibition!) ‘This is my photo of a thrown away piece of wood,’ said Mr. O. ‘When I saw the photo I realised it had bought out something beautiful in the wood and it made me think that all thrown away things have something beautiful still to be found. I have called this photo ‘Hope’. ‘
‘Nuff said.
My beginner’s pole dancing class also came to an end and there will sadly be no whipping around shouting ‘wheeee’ on poles until the intermediate class starts up next month. Just so you know this class wasn’t about sex..nope..this class was not even about grace and style..oh no oh no! This class, being beginners, was just lunatic gymnastics mixed in with the child-like memories of climbing trees..OK that was me. I shall have to take it more seriously for the intermediate class….point toes and stuff. …..but for now…‘WHEEEEEE!’ ‘ pole’ (c) T. Bush
There is no getting away from the endless prattle and waspish cynicism seeping septic from the news. Government implodes and flights disappear and French students are tortured to death.
Thank goodness for the historic and remarkable speech by Obama in Saudi Arabia. At that point all across UK there was a rush on green cards. He is like an outstanding professor, Armani model and Gandalf combined. I wish he would invade England.
I can’t concentrate and time is ticking but instead I sit empty and stupid watching the yobbish starlings decimate the suet balls on the bird feeder. They shriek and peck at each other; like the Labour party really. It would be a better metaphor if they were a ‘parliament’ of owls… wonder what is collective noun for starlings..hang about. .Ahhh Google! A ‘scourge’ of starlings..a ‘murmuration’ of starlings. Personally I would go for a ‘UKIP’ of starlings…but that’s just me… Starlings (c) Machrihaniol birds I am fascinated by their rough pecking. I am riveted by everyone eating actually. I become still and attentive when I see people chewing gum as they walk past. I drift off and drool horribly when food adverts come on to the TV; the reason being that I am only a couple of days into a ten-day detox. The first three fast days are worst and I’m already dreaming of melting cheese, chips and dirty martinis. The detox is just to reboot my liver before my birthday in couple of weeks and I know once I am on the raw food bit I shall feel marvellous but right now I ache for Bounty ice cream.
So this post is short and full of prattle and no substance because neither am I (full of substance that is.) I leave you with a photo I took in Trafalgar Square the other day, which I feel expresses my current mood exactly. T x
Hotel and conference centre: Banbury: Sat 16th My dad, known to this blog’s readers as The Doctor, arrived from Lusaka ten days ago and I am afraid, as per usual things, got a little nutso. Immediately there was the 50 year reunion of his old dental school The Royal. (yep, The Doctor did dentistry before he did medicine.) As the only offspring available I am allowed to attend although I am bit edgy as I will be the youngest at the do by about 30 years and certainly the only child in tow.
In the car my dad has managed to finagle from my distracted aunt, we discuss tactics. Iam anxious. They will ask me what I do. ‘Is ‘dole scum’ too aggressive?’ I ask. Dad, who nearly fell off his seat with laughter when I told him I was half way through an 8-week pole-dancing course, suggests exotic dancer. I decide to go with ‘burlesque’ as that sounds faintly circus and a bit edgy.
As it turns out there is enough wine consumed for none of the small talk to matter and everyone seems to be having a riotous time. Dad is in charge of the speech ‘The Next 50 Years.’ As usual he does no preparation, has no notes and, as he is the last speaker has consumed a fair amount of plonk so when he leaps to his feet I find I am biting my nails but his lunatic shaggy dog story about aliens digging up perfectly crowned molars in 500 years time hits all the right notes with this particular crowd of ex tooth-drillers and the crowd cheer. He even gets a guffaw from a passing waiter. Speech! (c) Tanvir Bush
Thrupp: Sunday 17th My beautiful old friend from university has a barge. She and her husband are living in it. With two cats and a roof garden. I am still feeling slightly bilious from the previous night and, captivated with the sunshine glinting on the water and the smell of patchouli incense in the living room, secretly try to negotiate a flat-to-barge swap with one of the cats but the cat is having none of it.
My place: Cambridge 19th ‘What’s a gimp?’ Asks Dad. My friend is passing on her esteemed husband’s suggestion of a more practical equivalent to a guide dog. ‘A gimp is a fetish slave.’ I say gravely. I am thinking the idea through and it sounds rather promising. ‘I could keep one instead of a dog- they will also walk to heel on a lead but the added benefit would be that I would get foot massages, gin and tonics made and wouldn’t need a pooper scooper. …or will I….?’ I look across at my friend for more information but she is in convulsions of giggles having noticed that Dad is wearing socks with days of the week printed boldly along each one. Today is Tuesday but he is sporting one Wednesday and a Friday. ‘Well.. you never know.’.he says mysteriously.
Casa Mio:Italian restaurant: Leeds 21st My dad’s famous cousin is sitting opposite us, still erudite and a commanding presence in his mid 80’s. He is talking about his active service in Bomber Command during World War 2. They were losing planes and people on every mission every week, every day. It was one of the most terrifying and deadly jobs of the entire war. Famous cousin’s father was a stern, emotionless man. When cousin arrived home on his occasional allowed visits, his Dad would quietly ask him ‘How many missions son?’ and then just nod at the answer be it 10, 25, 40 and that would be that.
One day cousin came home pale, exhausted. ‘How many son?’ Asked his father as always. ‘Sixty-two’ said cousin. ‘But that’s it Dad. Its over.’
And his father leant his head against the wall and wept. Then he took his son to the pub for the first time in his life.
We are quiet at the table. ‘I think it was the parents that suffered more then we ever did’ says this remarkable man.
Famous cousin’s daughter is an artist and she gives me a beautiful small piece called ‘a glimpse of the lake’. There is something jewel like and calming about it non?
‘A Glimpse of the Lake’ Hilary Brosch
Agra Restaurant: London: last night. My brother prods me in the ribs. ‘Well when is the next bit then?’ ‘Eh?’ I say trying not to choke on my king prawn curry (I haven’t stopped eating since Dad arrived. I am beginning to look like the cook from ‘Mary Poppins’.) ‘Your blog thing. I want to know if I’m in it.’ My brother grins, evil glinting from his choppers. I gaze with horror at him and then across the table strewn with bits of popadoms and rice, where The Doctor sits embroiled in a deep conversation with my sister who is sipping a large pint with her vicar’s dog collar slightly slipping. (Try saying that fast..) It has slowly dawned on me that they all now read my blog..quite regularly and I shall have to be tactical. Hell..I shall have to be nice about them or risk not getting birthday presents…. Bunch of Bushes (c) Tanvir Bush My family are bloody marvellous! Would I lie to you?
Following my last blog, I have been asking myself, ‘well why DO you write you loon? Explain yourself. After all you do tend to spend a hellish amount of time with what I call ‘writer’s block’ and other people might call ‘the television on’.’
Then it hit me. I write because of days like Tuesday. Let me explain. (It’s a bit of a long read this one. You can skip to the ‘conclusion’ if you are in a rush.)
Tuesday could have gone either way. I had had a bad night and woken up grouchy but then wrote poetry on the train in to London. Not saying if it was any good (actually it was so horrible it made the pen leak) but this invariably means something interesting is going to happen. I rarely get that compulsive need to write verse. It needs a change in the weather, a metaphysical prod, an uncanny ‘click’.
So I was thoughtful when I arrived at Kennington and slid into my role as a volunteer facilitator. We (from the charity Photovoice) are running a series of photographic workshops for blind and VI people. We are in the 4th week of a new course but on this Tuesday three new people stood patiently waiting to join in. A tall Jamaican lad, blind from birth, a short, streetwise North African with his guide dog Frankie and a gentle Haitian-English man with his dog Bill. As everyone else was hyped up to go on a field trip I stayed in to work with the three new men.
The older man asks what is often the first question. ‘Why should blind people take photographs’?’ I roll up my sleeves and begin. Over the two hours we explore the possibilities of communication between sighted and non-sighted communities, discuss language and how emotion can be conveyed through image and combinations of image, touch, scent and sound. We discuss sight; our sight, how we lost or are losing it, what limits us. Then we explore the camera basics through touch and take the first series of photographs using touch and sound to establish the composition and I show them how to place the camera on heart, chin or nose (using the head as a tripod pivot) to take steady and simple pictures.
One of the young men remembers that when he had sight as a child in Africa he loved to watch the birds flying in the dawn skies before he went to school. The sound of them…. ‘I want to take photos of birds,’ he says We discuss British bird song. We discuss what it might be like to layer bird song with images.
The tall Jamaican lad, blind from birth says he would rather photograph lions. ‘But I also love the countryside,’ he says. ‘I want to photograph Kent.’
But then the day swivels on its heel. When the rest of the group arrive back glowing from an outing to the Imperial War museum, it is apparent that the three new men are too many for the course and will have to leave. There will be another opportunity in a couple of months but they have been so open with me, so enthusiastic and hopeful that it is a blow to us all. I am too angry and I wonder if my own struggle with my diminishing sight is causing me to become too emotionally bound up with the participants.
I glance at one of the group photographs the young African man took in the park. There I stand next to the others, a small odd-looking woman in my over sized glasses and daft cap, looking cowed and uncomfortable in the sunlight, handling my cane like a dead snake. A blind person in a group of blind people. For an inexplicable reason I am horribly shocked by the photograph, my perspective skews wildly and I realise that I am gearing up for a panic attack. I haven’t had one for over three years..not since trying to commute from Cambridge to Reading for work (nearly 4 hours each way) and eventually losing it at Paddington station.
My heart beats up high in my throat and I feel nauseous. Bollocks…if I am going to have to breathe into a paper bag I am NOT going to do it here. I don’t ask for help, can’t really. The rest of the facilitators are sighted, experienced Londoners and I don’t feel I have time to go into the explanations. I make my excuses (I wonder afterwards if I actually pointed at my own head and made twirling motions….wouldn’t put it past myself!) and run.
Just as I am becoming doubtful that I will make it to the tube I run, smack bang (literally) into the tall Jamaican and the little savvy North African with his guide dog Frankie. Bizarrely they are going my way and gabbling happily, drag me with them into the depths of the tube station where a woman smelling deliciously of cocoa butter escorts us all into a carriage. The two leap out a couple of stops before me, Frankie’s toenails skittering on the floor in his desperation to get out of the train and the anonymous crowds swell.
I sigh and prepare to be swept up in the mayhem of Kings Cross underground and then…
‘Can I help you ma am,’ comes a voice from far above my head. A huge man in a yellow jacket and collar radio offers me an elbow. It take me three confused seconds to realise the coco butter lady has called ahead for a ‘meet and greet’ and this monster is my escort. I can’t see the man’s face clearly in the low light behind my glasses but I note the tattoos that spiral up his wrist and disappear into his shirtsleeves. He is so big that the crowd don’t even try to squeeze around him but instead wait patiently behind for him, tanker like, to move off. I take his arm..well half of it. My hand isn’t big enough to get a full grip of his elbow. I feel like I am in a Shrek cartoon. We seem to float up to the exit
‘I’ll be fine now, ta’, I say and he kind of heaves me gently over the barricades and I am off up the steps to face the masses in the mainline station and I wince and..
‘Excuse me… may I help you? I actually work for RNIB and I couldn’t help notice you had a cane….’
A middle-aged man with a manner so neutral and insipid that he almost lacks an aura is at my shoulder. Again the crowd part around him as if he has a small force field. My mouth drops open as I thank him and take his arm. We are perfectly in time for the train and he plants me on the furthest carriage and almost bowing, scuttles away so as not to invade my space.
‘This is getting ridiculous,’ I think to myself and the various gods that seem to be carrying me home. ‘I was booked in for a panic attack 45 minutes ago…’
‘T is that you?’ A woman squeezes in next to me. An acquaintance from Citizens Advice Bureau. ‘What a bit of luck,’ she says not knowing the half of it. ‘How’s your MA application going? Anything I can help with?’
And so on Tuesday it seems, after a wonderful and terrible day I was actually escorted home by some marvellous series of (coincidence/ angels/ aliens/ Jesus/ Monkey god/ quantum event/ luck).
And to CONCLUDE, if I didn’t write this stuff down I would forget it. (well…what did you expect?) By the way if you just skipped to the conclusion you missed the bit about the naked couple at Elephant and Castle tube station…
Now about that award; As I mentioned it was Val from http://monkeysontheroof.blogspot.com/ Who awarded me the Noblesse Oblige. She writes from the Botswanan bush and her blog is so vivid and beautiful you might never need to go on safari yourself but just check with her every few days! Her work is a commentary on the harshness of beauty of the natural world around her. Fantastic stuff! So here is the award speel!
This award is one of the more thoughtful ones that I’ve seen or been given. It’s got a purpose behind it that really makes you think about why you’re blogging and who has influenced you. And of course it comes from a blogger whose insights and work are creative and humbling. The recipient of this award is recognized for the following: 1) The Blogger manifests exemplary attitude, respecting the nuances that pervades amongst different cultures and beliefs. 2) The Blog contents inspire; strives to encourage, and offers solutions. 3) There is a clear purpose at the Blog; one that fosters a better understanding on Social, Political, Economic, the Arts, Culture, Sciences, and Beliefs. 4) The Blog is refreshing and creative. 5) The Blogger promotes friendship and positive thinking. The Blogger who receives this award will need to perform the following steps: 1) Create a Post with a mention and link to the person who presented the Noblesse Oblige Award. 2) The Award Conditions must be displayed at the Post. 3) Write a short article about what the Blog has thus far achieved – preferably citing one or more older posts to support. 4) The Blogger must present the Noblesse Oblige Award in concurrence with the Award conditions. 5) Blogger must display the Award at any location at the Blog.
Phew! Right all done apart from my nominations. And they are (and in 3D –just like in Cannes!)
Tinku of Tinku Tales: http://tinkutales.blogspot.com/ for her exceptional dialogue on all things contemporary art and culture in Canada.
Susan from Stony River Farm http://stonyriverfarm.blogspot,com/ I am sure she has already been weighted down with awards but this is the blog to tap into if you are a would be writer. Warm and brilliantly informative and often exceedingly funny!
Ruh and John of Epicblogue http://epicblogue.blogspot.com/ A bit of nepotism here but this is my Mum and her partner’s remarkable ongoing blog about their adventures in Europe and recent relocation to France. Funny, insightful and sometimes so dry it makes one reach immediately for the wine.
+023.jpg)
