Well as you all know by now, I am disabled and the cold wet weather really plays havoc with my condition. Having had a lovely couple of weeks weather wise, I was really starting to feel quite well and then the heavens opened this evening. I popped to the local shop and ended up soaking wet so was having a typically British whinge about the bad weather when I was severly told off by a random woman in the shop.
"We're having a water shortage don't you know and we need the rain" she states emphatically.
I really wasn't in the mood for a discussion, having only stopped in to get some tea and fags so just nodded and shuffled off home again. The thing is, it really bugs me.
We live on an island, with lots of rivers and a temporate climate, yet we regularly have problems with shortages of water, both domestic and industrial. Yet other European countries, landlocked and much warmer, don't seem to suffer the same issues. Why?
Why do we not invest in desalinisation? Why do we not upgrade/repair our ancient water systems? Why do we, the 'consumer' pay through the nose for water supplies and sewage removal only to be told we can't use the water as there isn't enough?
It's madness. The gutters near my house are literally overflowing with water right now but next week we'll be told "save water, don't use hosepipes, we're almost a desert".
It's another example of a privatised industry ripping off the public of our country. It's what happens when a government is more interested in money than the lives of the people it's meant to represent.
I could go on, but I'm cold and wet and desperately need a cup of tea......
Tuesday, 3 April 2012
Wednesday, 29 February 2012
Ode To The Woman In The Pink Top
I am disabled. I have FMS which, for the uninitiated, doesn't stand for fuckingmegaspastic but Fibromyalgia Syndrome. It's a non life threatening neurological condition for which there is no cure and very little in the way of significant treatment. I'm able to do a full time job with some adjustments and I don't get any benefits or help to manage my condition. I use a stick when I go out to help with walking and balance. Other than that, I pretty much get on with it. I refuse to be brought down by the change this condition has brought to my life. Today I had to travel to London to speak at a meeting. All was going well with my travels until it was time to get the train home.
I understand that after a long day at work, everyone is tired and wants to sit down. I also feel tired after a day at work. Then again one of the symptoms of FMS is chronic fatigue so I feel tired all the time. Not just a bit sleepy or worn out but utterly, totally, mentally and physically exhausted. So tired that I can bearly lift my arms or move my legs. So exhausted that I feel like my bones are made of lead. So worn out that stringing a coherent sentence together is a challenge. The other major symptom is the accute pain I have in all my muscles and joints. Burning, stabbing, shooting pains in my legs and arms. Stiffness and pain in my neck and spine. Crippling headaches and facial pains. That's without mentioning the poor balance I have, the numbness I get in my feet and hands. The problematic eyesight, inability to sleep for longer than three hours and so on.......
I understand that the price of a ticket is costly and people feel that entitles them to a seat. I also find the cost of travel expensive. I don't get any financial help in spite of the increased cost that living with a disability brings. The Government don't consider my condition warrants any assistance. So I pay out more than able bodied people just to live a semi normal life through no fault of my own.
So what's all this about? Am I having a 'feeling sorry for myself' moment? No.
I've said all this because I want to make able bodied people who use public transport wake up to the ignorance and disrespect they show when a disabled person gets on a bus or a train and they watch them struggle and STILL don't give up their seat.
So back to my train home....
To you, the young man in your silk blend purple shirt, glancing at me from time to time with a pitying smile on your face. I don't want your pity, I want your seat.
To you, the young man in the white designer jacket and the bottle blond hair who stared at me all the way home, whilst sucking your teeth. Yes I have a walking stick, not a second head. But if I did have two heads, so what? I don't want your respect, I want your seat.
To you, the middle aged EDL supporter, taking up two seats clearly marked as reserved for disabled people because you had a sports bag with you. I don't want your ignorance, I want your seat.
To all the other fit and able people on the train, who covertly stared at me whilst not looking me in the eye because they were ashamed that they knew they wouldn't be the one to stand up and offer me a seat. I don't want your shame, I want your seat.
To you, the lovely woman in the pink top, who in spite of having a heavy bag, in spite of being a woman on a train full of men and in spite of being obviously knackered was the only damn person on the train to get up, smile and offer me her seat, thank you. You are a perfect stranger who I will never meet again but you touched my life today. You gave me your seat.
I understand that after a long day at work, everyone is tired and wants to sit down. I also feel tired after a day at work. Then again one of the symptoms of FMS is chronic fatigue so I feel tired all the time. Not just a bit sleepy or worn out but utterly, totally, mentally and physically exhausted. So tired that I can bearly lift my arms or move my legs. So exhausted that I feel like my bones are made of lead. So worn out that stringing a coherent sentence together is a challenge. The other major symptom is the accute pain I have in all my muscles and joints. Burning, stabbing, shooting pains in my legs and arms. Stiffness and pain in my neck and spine. Crippling headaches and facial pains. That's without mentioning the poor balance I have, the numbness I get in my feet and hands. The problematic eyesight, inability to sleep for longer than three hours and so on.......
I understand that the price of a ticket is costly and people feel that entitles them to a seat. I also find the cost of travel expensive. I don't get any financial help in spite of the increased cost that living with a disability brings. The Government don't consider my condition warrants any assistance. So I pay out more than able bodied people just to live a semi normal life through no fault of my own.
So what's all this about? Am I having a 'feeling sorry for myself' moment? No.
I've said all this because I want to make able bodied people who use public transport wake up to the ignorance and disrespect they show when a disabled person gets on a bus or a train and they watch them struggle and STILL don't give up their seat.
So back to my train home....
To you, the young man in your silk blend purple shirt, glancing at me from time to time with a pitying smile on your face. I don't want your pity, I want your seat.
To you, the young man in the white designer jacket and the bottle blond hair who stared at me all the way home, whilst sucking your teeth. Yes I have a walking stick, not a second head. But if I did have two heads, so what? I don't want your respect, I want your seat.
To you, the middle aged EDL supporter, taking up two seats clearly marked as reserved for disabled people because you had a sports bag with you. I don't want your ignorance, I want your seat.
To all the other fit and able people on the train, who covertly stared at me whilst not looking me in the eye because they were ashamed that they knew they wouldn't be the one to stand up and offer me a seat. I don't want your shame, I want your seat.
To you, the lovely woman in the pink top, who in spite of having a heavy bag, in spite of being a woman on a train full of men and in spite of being obviously knackered was the only damn person on the train to get up, smile and offer me her seat, thank you. You are a perfect stranger who I will never meet again but you touched my life today. You gave me your seat.
Saturday, 1 October 2011
Pegs
Why oh why don't the pegs I have stay on the washing line when I take the dry clothes off??? It's not a complex operation. I mean I can understand printers, faxes and even mobile phones refusing to comply with my naive requests but a peg? I mean it's only two bits of plastic and a small spring. How can a cheap and simple tool go so badly wrong?
I suspect, sometimes, that actually they're not inanimate objects at all. I suspect that these innocent looking everyday objects are really demons in disguise, sent up here to make my life a little bit worse on a tiny scale. I suspect hell knows that after years of being gently prodded away at, one day I will snap and impale the cats through the eyes with the damned pegs (this is probably an exaggeration). One day I may go into town, buy a power tool and nailgun my wet laundry to the washing line.
However, until that day I will simply comfort myself that if nothing else, all the bending down to pick up pinged off pegs is at least a form of exercise. Heaven forbid I should attempt anything more vigorous!
I suspect, sometimes, that actually they're not inanimate objects at all. I suspect that these innocent looking everyday objects are really demons in disguise, sent up here to make my life a little bit worse on a tiny scale. I suspect hell knows that after years of being gently prodded away at, one day I will snap and impale the cats through the eyes with the damned pegs (this is probably an exaggeration). One day I may go into town, buy a power tool and nailgun my wet laundry to the washing line.
However, until that day I will simply comfort myself that if nothing else, all the bending down to pick up pinged off pegs is at least a form of exercise. Heaven forbid I should attempt anything more vigorous!
Wednesday, 7 September 2011
Too Much Ice Cream
So...everyone seems to be at this blogging malarky and as I'm a gal who has a lot to say about everything, it seemed appropriate for me to have a go. The problem is, I have no idea what to write about, so let's start with a bit about who I am and see where it ends up.
I'm 41. Not that my age is an issue, not for me at least, but it allows my readers (God, I'm optimistic!) to form a picture. I have a weight issue. Mostly because there's too much of it. I've been in two long term relationships, one of which was a marriage, and now I'm very happily engaged once more, something I never thought would happen. I don't have any children of my own but have two wonderful step sons to be. Oh and two cats. I'm a full time Trade Union Representative and I have three disabilities.
None of the above is remotely interesting and really does nothing to describe who I am. I do find however, that most people want to know this sort of thing, in preference to what my lifelong ambitions are, or what my emotional state is.
So why is this blog called Too Much Ice Cream? Simple, I've just eated an entire tub of Hagaan Daaz Beligian Chocolate Ice Cream and now I feel slightly sick. Ok perhaps a tad more that slightly. Do I regret it? No, I loved every minute of it!
I'm 41. Not that my age is an issue, not for me at least, but it allows my readers (God, I'm optimistic!) to form a picture. I have a weight issue. Mostly because there's too much of it. I've been in two long term relationships, one of which was a marriage, and now I'm very happily engaged once more, something I never thought would happen. I don't have any children of my own but have two wonderful step sons to be. Oh and two cats. I'm a full time Trade Union Representative and I have three disabilities.
None of the above is remotely interesting and really does nothing to describe who I am. I do find however, that most people want to know this sort of thing, in preference to what my lifelong ambitions are, or what my emotional state is.
So why is this blog called Too Much Ice Cream? Simple, I've just eated an entire tub of Hagaan Daaz Beligian Chocolate Ice Cream and now I feel slightly sick. Ok perhaps a tad more that slightly. Do I regret it? No, I loved every minute of it!
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