Disabling Able-bods.

Do you know how to disable an able-bod? . . . dribble in front of them.
Works like a charm, and in no time they are putty in your hands.

This article is for the disabled people, so sensitive able-bods should turn to the fund raising pages. I was chatting to a fellow MD'er the other day over a cafe latte, with a straw. Nothing stronger for us powerchair drivers! The topic of conversation was the obtaining of grants or concessions which are dependent on one's disability.

Now I've just gone through one of these processes, which involved me completing and signing an official document detailing my disability, together with a three page "letter of justification". This was not good enough, despite it being a legal document. I had to be assessed by my GP, who also had to sign on the proverbial dotted line. It seems however that GP's can't be trusted as this too was insufficient and I had to be assessed once again by a local association which represents us invalids. Fortunately I was not miraculously cured in between the two appointments and the assessments matched. Whew! Sadly they too are of questionable standing since all the forms had to be submitted to Johannesburg-on-High, who presumably have some sort of mega x-ray powers that enabled them to beam down to us 1600km away and determine if we were collectively trying to pull the wool over their eyes. These Roswellian Johannesburgers then humbly submitted the now considerable pile of papers to a government department whose power it was to cast judgement over us all. It's a three ring circus, but circuses can be fun.

Now it is still not as cut and dried as it appears. We're dealing with pencil pushers here wielding considerable power, and they like to use it, and are not averse to putting some crip in their place when the desire arises. I was informed, in writing, that "disabled people who apply for a rebate are out to cheat the system". Damn! to think that after spending the past thirty years in a wheelchair trying to pull the wool over their eyes I've been discovered. My cover blown. Well at least my mother thinks I'm honest! But our Regime obviously believes this sentiment because the process took six months from date of submission, and not a day less. Presumably this time is spent checking on the GP, the staff of the local association, and the Roswellians. I guess it takes time to collect criminal records, shoe sizes, satellite photos, etc.

This sort of bureaucratic entanglement of disabled people is not only limited to South Africa. Just nine months ago I was turned down for a disabled train ticket on a European railway because I did not have a "letter from my government confirming that I was disabled". I didn't think in my physical condition, and after thirty years in a wheelchair, that I needed a letter to tell me I was disabled! Clearly I was wrong.

So, back to our conversation, and a cooler latte . . . how does one ensure a smooth ride, if you'll excuse the pun, through the paperwork gauntlet? It cuts across every fibre of my being, every strength I've developed through fourty eight years of permanent disability. But we're playing a game here, and the game has rules, however perverse, and the goal is to win. And if winning means showing able-bods what you cannot do for ten minutes, as opposed to showing them what you can, then so be it. Hey! Our national cricket team have been showing us all what they cannot do for years now, and they get paid a fortune to do it!

And so, as I sucked on the last of the latte . . . we concluded that there is only one way to successfully tackle the formalisation and assessment of our disability. We need to BE disabled. Immerse ourselves in our disability, milk it, show it, list it, wear it, . . . in a word, dribble.