In other news...

...second in the Championship isn't bloody bad. Come on you Irons!

The Ministry Of Housinge

So, the saga with my housing application continues.

I should explain: I am currently homeless, and have been living with m'colleague since the end of December last year when a long-term relationship broke up. I had no duty to be rehoused by the housing association, as my ex-boyfriend had never put me on the tenancy agreement (thanks SO much for that...), and so I went to the oh-so-helpful local council to make a homelessness application. At this point I should say that m'colleague rents a flat that is barely big enough for one, let alone two, so overcrowding is a problem. (Don't get me wrong; I'm not ungrateful. I ooze gratitude from every oozy pore. It's just a fact.)

In order to get any kind of priority help, I need to be assessed ill enough (basically) by a medical assessment officer. My case was assessed numerous times, and each time I got turned down. During this time, my mental state has got worse and worse with the passing of the year, and now I'm at the stage where I'm on god knows what meds, and m'colleague is now also m'carer. FUN! So what happens? My case is dismissed altogether! I now have to open another case, and I have today put steps into place where I can actually see the assessment team who, all the while, have deemed that I am "no less able to fend for" myself than any other homeless person. Yes, well, when I'm having a hypo, or running in front of traffic, or convinced there's someone around the next corner with a knife ready to kill me, I'm sure I can fend for myself just nicely. As Hugh Laurie once said, the things you have to do to prove you're mad.

I'm also on a property bidding system, but I may as well be on a fun bus to Scunthorpe for all the good it does. In nine months and diligent bidding on three properties a fortnight, I've had one viewing, and then the place went to someone else who was higher priority than me anyway. The properties on the system are getting fewer and fewer as the weeks go on, until there's something like 500 people bidding on the same place. Ridiculous doesn't even cover it.

And what about private renting, I hear you all cry? Yes. That would be so easy, wouldn't it? OK, you find me a landlord who's willing to accept Housing Benefit on one of their properties and not try and screw you over. Because everyone who claims Housing Benefit is money-grabbing dole scum who's going to do a runner with the money, aren't they. I'm planning my holiday in Barbados for as soon as I can get my hands on the cash. I think there's something in the Disability Discrimination Act about not refusing disabled people accommodation, but they might as well write "biscuit cruet banana banana windsock Aberdeen" for any notice paid to that. The DDA is fairly toothless at the end of the day, and people are still going to get screwed over as long as there are people willing to discriminate.

I know this is a massive moan, but it's high time I put both my situation and feelings into words. I try and take it in my stride, as I do with most things, but I can't deny that this really gets on top of me at times. Living in such close quarters with m'colleague can put a real strain on our friendship at times (though these times are very rare; she's generally bloody lovely to live with), and the day we can finally get a two-bedroomed flat rather than be camped on a bed and sofa in a converted garage will be most welcome. Shepherds Bush, Hammersmith, Kilburn or Upton Park/Plaistow would be nice, if you're reading, housing fairies.

Exhibit 2

It would appear that this blog, sporadic as it is, will be turning into a kind of 'Face and Shame' (rather than name-and-shame) project for all the ignorant persons out there on the London Underground.

So.

Last night, after attending a particularly excellent recording of The Now Show (that's 6.30pm, tonight on Radio 4, should you dare to miss it), we embarked on out journey home. Now, the Piccadilly Line isn't usually too crowded on a weeknight, but last night was an exception (someone must have farted on the line at Oakwood or something). As we boarded the train to make our journey west, I began to have my usual seatless-carriage panic at being torn between asking for a seat and feeling crushingly humiliated, or standing and risking the chance of doing an impression of the Wright Brothers without a plane again. M'colleague was in belligerent mood (to be fair, this is not uncommon*) and started telling people to move as there was a disabled person who needed a seat. That was when we had the great fortune to run into this fascinating character:

 After m'colleague had twice asked people to move, and even after a total stranger had also asked on my behalf (for which I am, of course, grateful), this superlative example of human breeding pretended he hadn't heard or, indeed, seen the woman lean down and talk directly to him, and continued to stare into space in his Rooney-esque manner. Because he, naturally, with his toned physique and chiselled good looks was FAR superior to any lower form of life that deemed to near his presence and, therefore, exempt from getting the fuck out of the priority seat, or even from moving his thrust-out, trippy-over legs from the gangway (another sufferer of Wandering Bollock Disease, I fear).

For the rest of the journey, he was our quarry.

Now, we don't often do this, but sometimes there are people on trains who have so annoyed or angered the pair of us that neither of us can resist the temptation. We are not bullies, merely revenge-seekers to those who deserve it in our own little childish way. My particular favourite was singing 'Gravy Tan'** to the tune of Eidelweiss. Luckily, Oblivious Man remained Oblivious for the rest of his journey, until he shuffled, knuckles dragging, from the train the stop before ours. I shall make a mental note to give him a prod up the Adidas if I ever see him in town.

The gentleman who did eventually stand so I didn't go flying also took some coercing out of his seat, so engrossed he was in a business conversation with a female colleague. Bah. Leave business off the Tube and have some fun, dammit.

An aside: Before boarding the Piccadilly Line at Green Park, I bumped into someone during our passage from the Victoria Line; he was, very helpfully, stood right at the top of the escalator, in the way of everyone. I bumped into him and kept walking, and heard "Aw, right, baaarge me a l'il, ay? Wassall tha' abaaaht, then? Ay?" Upon looking at who had baaarged into him and discovering she had a cane, I heard a plaintive "...oh". There's a good boy. *pats him on the head*

Seemed to be the night for idiot travellers... but, then again, when isn't it?

*Please don't hit me, please, please don't hit me! :P
**It doesn't look like it from the photo, but this man was practically orange. Seriously orange. The orangest of Tic-Tacs could not out-rival this man's orangeness. The man was orange, is the basic topic sentence here.

Oops.

To prove how important someone was to me today, I ran in front of a bus.

I was not aware I had done this until it was pointed out to me.

I think I might need stronger medication...

A Man of Definite Importance

Last night, on my journey back from yet another comedy event, I had the good fortune to run into this delightful man at Piccadilly Circus tube station:

(Forgive the unusual angle of the photo - I'm more Old Bailey than David Bailey)

Why should I share this fact with the world? Well, mainly because he is the most audacious, intelligent and refreshing individual I have ever met in my life. Upon the arrival of a Piccadilly Line train last night and its doors opening, he elbowed me out of the way in order to run onto the train and practically throw himself into the disability priority seat. When picked up on this action by m'colleague (I am genuinely too awkward to say anything in these situations), he simply looked at her as if she'd asked him to explain the basic principles of quantum physics in classical Greek. He then became engrossed with his phone, not putting it down for the entire journey, and spread out his legs so far that he may as well have been going for gold in the International Bollock Displayal Championships. Luckily, there were other seats available*, so we simply mimcked his stance, pulling out our phones and pretending to stare at them for twenty minutes. Not a flicker crossed this staunch, stolid gentleman's face, so resolute was he to ignore the rest of the world in the relentless pursuit of himself. I was in awe of his steely determination, his maverick genius, his utter failure to register when people were tripping over his feet.

He got off at the same stop as we did. Sadly, he alighted through a different door, so I was unable to give him a swift blow across the legs with my cane. I imagine I only would have got that quantum physics look had I done so.

*This story may seem like sour grapes in light of this fact, but as a great man (well, Rik from the Young Ones) once said, it's the principle of the thing, really. So, my well-considered response is "yah boo sucks". 

For Your Information: My Handbook on Dealing with a Blindie

Over the past couple of days, I have been on my travels a fair amount (resulting in a gammy foot and a further hole in my overdraft - damn you, Petticoat Lane!), and my experiences have prompted me to finally compile my handbook on how to deal with my lesser-visioned kind. I hope the following will be of use to you!

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COPING WITH BLINDIES
A crash-into-and-fall-over course

ON THE STREET. When I am coming towards you, you should stand right in the middle of the pavement, blocking any kind of access to the road ahead. When I bump into you, your reaction should be to tut and give me a look suggesting I have just killed your offspring. Should I get too close to you on a pavement while I walk along, your reaction should be to maintain your normal walking position, and then do something resembling an Irish jig to avoid being hit with my cane. Street entertainment is a dying art, and there will be many around us who will appreciate the free show.

TIP: The absolute best place to stand and conduct public business with friends or relatives is just inside or outside of a shop doorway.

DIRECTIONS. The best way to give me directions to somewhere is to point and say "It's over there". I will instinctively know in which direction you are pointing and head that way. To make a real impression, when my desired location is rather close, you can always give me a look of disbelief because I can't see it.

ON PUBLIC TRANSPORT. When I board a particularly crowded tube, train or bus, you should look me up and down, shoot a confused look at my cane, and then bury your head in your Metro/Evening Standard/Kindle/latest bestseller that you carry with you in the hope it will make you look intellectual. If I gather enough courage to ask for a seat - this is usually after I have fallen over at least twice - you should either crane your neck even further into your reading material, or shoot me another of those firstborn-murderer looks. I can't get enough of them.

TIP: The signs on the tube for seats meant for the disabled and less able to stand are a little joke from TfL. You are, of course, the most important person on the train.

TIP 2: When you are sitting on the aisle seat of a two-seat on a bus and the window seat is empty, when I ask to sit on the empty seat, you need only shift your knees fractionally to the side in order for me to manoeuvre past you. There is no need for you to move to the other seat.

IN THE SUPERMARKET. When I am attempting to manoeuvre down an aisle of groceries, your immediate reaction should be to block the aisle with your trolley/basket/child, ideally while talking loudly on your mobile phone. This will cause me to fall over or bump into aforementioned trolley/basket/child, causing maximum inconvenience for all concerned.

IN A RESTAURANT. Particularly for a buffet, the best place to sit me is as far away from the buffet tables as possible. This will present me with a human obstacle course to work around, providing me with exercise opportunity, particularly when I have to balance a plate of food on the way back.

AT A TELEVISION/RADIO RECORDING. I will not need to see what's happening in front of me from a close distance and can happily be sat right at the back of an auditorium. This is especially true of radio recordings, because as the medium is audio, the participants will not make any facial expressions throughout the proceedings and I will not have missed anything. When I ask for assistance, you should ignore me or not pass the message on, so that when we go to be seated, I trip up over several people who rush in front of me. Having a bruised leg and limping for a week really keeps me on my toes! Audience members: by all means push past me when my assistance has been arranged. You have been queuing for longer, or you get a damp flange over one of the participants, and that of course gives you the God-given right to go first. It also gives you the right to make bitchy comments within my earshot about how you should go in first. I just love it!

CUSTOMER SERVICE. When serving me at a till, the best thing to do is carry out the transaction entirely silently. I do not need to know the final total to pay, as it's conveniently displayed on the tiny LED screens that face the fully-sighted customer. I will know instinctively how much my shopping totals, and magically give you the exact change. Moreover, when I say "Hello" and "Thank you" during our transaction, you should look around boredly or glance confusedly/piteously at my cane, depending on your mood.

YOUR CHILDREN. Children are such active little bundles of joy, aren't they, and are consequently always on the move. As a parent, it is your responsibility to make sure they get as much exercise as they can, and high streets, shopping centres and eateries are clearly the best place for this. Should I happen to walk into one of your offspring when they have run into my path, you should of course shout at me for getting in the way of your child and give me a look that suggests I'm worse than a paedophile.

TIP: The small fold-up scooter is very popular with children these days and, once again, shopping centres are the ideal place for them to be ridden. I'm at my best when my legs are bruised from having scooters ridden into them, so do keep that in mind.

MY AGE. It's a well-known fact that nobody under the age of fifty-five is disabled because they are "too young" to be, and considering I look rather young for my age, this will obviously be even more confusing to you. In most situations, looking me up and down before continuing your trajectory with an expression of "no, she can't be" will be sufficient. I will then trip over you because I'm too young to be disabled and am therefore just clumsy.

YOUR COMMENTS IN PUBLIC. I adore being the centre of attention due to my cane, and your helpful, witty and incisive comments are an utter joy. Ranging from the simple "What's she holding that stick for?" (deeply philosophical in its simplicity), to "Come away, she's blind!" (Partial sight is exactly like being totally blind, and is also highly contagious). My using visual communication aids, such as my phone (for texts), in public, should also not go without comment. A wonderful witticism I heard once was "She's not blind! She can see that phone better than I could!" Everyone who carries a cane has exactly the same eye conditions and level of sight, and their sight will never be as bad as yours was that day when it was foggy and you'd had too much to drink the night before.

QUESTIONS ABOUT MY EYESIGHT. Eye conditions mean you have exactly the same level of sight every single day. Therefore, I just love being able to tell you exactly how far I can see in mind-numbing detail. Please feel free to ask me how far I can see, as this gives me the opportunity to wax lyrical about the minutest details of my eye problems. I have never had to do this before, so your questioning will be original, refreshing and not at all deeply personal.

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I will now get off my bleedin' soapbox for the evening and resume the Crochet Project of Doom. Pip-pip.

It's fun being a hooker.

Because no-one's made that joke before. I AM THE FIRST, I TELL YOU.
Have spent the past couple of weeks crocheting these little granny squares:

It's slowly taking over my life. Initially, it was meant as a way of using up the leftover bits of wool in my bits bag. But then, Ol' Bright Ideas here decided to start crocheting an afghan. Oops. I have now bought a further six balls of wool, with the possibility of having to get at least another two, in order to complete it (my obsessive-compulsive nature meant I decided to use eighteen colours). Still, I'm sure once it's finished, it'll look... an utter mess, as with most things I do. I'll keep you posted.