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.

Get your kid off my joystick!

I've been permanently wheelchair based for 30 years now, almost 10 of those in a powerchair, and I still have not worked out a tried and tested method of dealing with small children. They're tricky little devils, made worse by the baggage they bring along called "parents". To paraphrase a well known saying, I think the only predictable thing about kids is that they are unpredictable. Throw a wheelchair into the equation and it becomes a lottery.

You're OK while they are younger than about fourteen months, until then they can't move around much, and more importantly they can't speak! But after that things decline rapidly. The little guys come in four varieties ; the squashed kid, the tree climber, the question asker, and the joystick grabber.

The "squashed kid" is the least dangerous, often because they have already been squashed before you even know it. They operate at a low level, around the fringes of your space, are generally silent, often crawling, and are usually only to be found behind your back. Miniature fingers and toes always come off worse when pitted against wheelchair tyres. Add a pair of motors and a battery box to that and it is no contest. Solutions for squashed kids are to develop a strong sixth sense, eyes in the back of one's head are a must-have, and learn to drive the powerchair like a 90-year-old granny. When these fail a good set of ear plugs is recommended. One is well advised to seek solutions, particularly when in the company of good friends with their kids. Remember it is a short step from invalid friend, to kid maimer.

The "tree climber" sees you as a challenge. Not because they want to get into your mind, or because they're curious about your disability. Your chair as an obstacle, and all obstacles must be conquered. In no time at all they will be upon you, like monkey's. The nimble ones will think nothing of scrambling from the battery boxes at the back to the foot rests at the front by going right over you. None of them seem able to resist hanging off the side armrests like a cowboy in a stagecoach western movie. Whatever you do, resist all temptation to give the tree climber a ride. Who knows what monster you will unleash.

Things get considerably trickier with the "question asker". The little critters have grown to be far more cunning, and they now stalk you, waiting for the right moment to pop the question "why don't you walk?". They usually wait for you to be at your most vulnerable, such as in the company of friends when the conversation is at its most silent, in a crowded shopping mall, or in a restaurant. It's a tough one. I can't recall as a kid walking up to a black person and asking why they were black, or a woman as asking why she got big hooters? If you choose to answer the question asker be warned, by doing so you will unleash a torrent of further questions, many of which cannot be answered in good company.

Beware of parents who cannot answer "the question" themselves (or who are just as curious) and empower their kid to go bravely where no man should go and send him over to you. I mean, they won't send him over to ask the weight challenged lady at the table opposite why she's fat, but they'll send the little guy over to you and sit there waiting to see your response. This is what is known as a no-win situation. Answer the kid thoughtfully and you will open that floodgate again, chase him away and you're mean-spirited. I always choose mean-spirited, I'm sure the kids self esteem will be restored after suitable therapy.

And so we come to the "joystick grabber", the most dangerous of them all. Kids to powerchair joysticks are like moths to a candle. It's like a magnet for grasping little fingers! I'm a guy, I have a joystick. I would have thought that would be a babe magnet, but instead all I get are 2-foot terrors. The joystick grabber combines the stealth of the squashed kid, the agility of the tree climber, with the cunning of the question asker. They lurk on the fringes, feigning dis-interest and good behaviour, and then rush in to strike without warning! One minute you're sitting enjoying a peaceful conversation, the next you hear those dreaded words "what's this for?", and before you can say "Quickie" you're lurching around like a convulsing drunk.

A positive spin-off of the joystick grabbers is that they often end up as squashed kids since they most often pull the joystick towards themselves! It's a positive because this action usually cures them of their joystick grabbing vice. The negative spin-off is that after rehabilitation they are more cautious and become question askers . . .