Apologies for neglecting my blogging duties rather of late. It’s been a rather mad couple of weeks with a close friend nearly making it into Big Brother (only Caroline could come up with that explanation!).
Come October of course we’ll have the Disability Discrimination Act on our side of course and hence will be able to bring even stronger legal arguments to bear that folk in wheelchairs should have as much access to making a tit of themselves on national TV as anyone else.
More seriously though (and seeing as most people seem to have twigged anyway, that my friend in hospital was the fabulous Caroline!), it’s been a rough few weeks in which I’ve felt powerless to do anything very useful for a friend having an unbelievably tough time.
I’ve been waiting for the weekend to come so that I can head down South to see her. Having finally escaped her NHS captors on Friday night, a quick change of plans means I head to her place in Bristol, rather than Salisbury hospital.
It’s so good to see her, phone calls are great, but not the same. Within minutes we’re giggling away like the senseless creatures we are and the next 24 hours are filled by a mixture of shared tears, joy, peace and frustration.
I love every minute that I’m there (fabulous flat, fabulous weather, fabulous company!) and don’t want to go, but I’m aware that my inane chatter has probably more than tired Caroline out, so late Sunday afternoon I reluctantly haul my arse back north.
A detour via North Wales means I’m even able to call in at the end of the third birthday party of Seren, the daughter of some good friends. More of that however, another time.
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