I have yet another puncture and I’m currently by myself miles from home. A fella used my pump to reinflate it but it went down straight away. As I’ve checked the bloody tyre and wheel again and again I’m sure it’s not anything in the wheel that’s doing it, which leaves me perhaps running over the same sharp bit somewhere again and again, somewhere near ( or in ) where I live.
Mentally it’s not great for me to be in the situation I am, which I think is understandable- I’m lopsided and it doesn’t feel ever so safe. There’s absolutely sod all I can do about it except wait here and then continue my journey later on to eventually meet Wendy, who will at least have my wheelchair ramp car, so getting back is gonna be ok.
We are meeting to see Lily Allen in Camden – let’s face it, I keep on keeping on, to make my life worthwhile, but I do find myself in fixes. Just now, for example, I’ve wheeled towards the lift from the Victoria line and there are 2 black ( Nigerian ? ) guys waiting for the lift ahead of me. One of them keeps grabbing both his bum cheeks. When the lift arrives, all 3 of us get in and then behind me a large black lady who appears to know the 2 guys. The one holding his arse looks very uncomfortable.
When the door shuts, locking us all into a small metal box, the reason for his manner become apparent. From the overpowering smell, it would seem that he has shat his pants, and got the lift to limit how much he has to walk around til he finds a toilet?
Possibly if I hadn’t got in the lift, maybe the lift itself would have become the toilet?
Who knows. As Lily Allen sings, no doubt later on….. Smile….. right?
Easier said than done when you are paralysed in a wheelchair with a flat tyre inside a small hot lift with a big black bloke who’s just shat his pants.