LESSER-SPOTTED SIGHTINGS PART II

Continuing with my birdwatching amongst the Coffee Shop Regulars.......*

*I overhear the conversations because the tables are so close. I'm not spying.... honestly:

Here are some of the lesser-spotted sightings.

NAME: THE BUDGIES                       SPECIES: Ladies who latte

SIGHTING: Regular Friday morning                CALL: They do indeed like to latte

PLUMAGE: Joules; Crew Clothing. Particularly fond of body warmers. Dislike make-up. Scruffy hair. Equestrian boots all year round, except in really hot weather when the Merrell sandals come into their own.

I used to be Sandi Toksvig

This flock of clones could possibly be the result of a failed BBC experiment to cross Caroline Quinn with Sandi Toksvig. They are the mature yummy mummies. Fenella and Aloysius et al have left the nest to attend prep school and now these ladies have the freedom to talk as much as they want. I'm under the impression that they don't actually speak much at home, because once they are released out into the wild they make up for it at 3000 words a minute and often at an octave that rests just slightly above annoying. The noise level is constant and often to the point where you cannot hear individual words – it's just a wall of sound – punctuated with the occasional vibration of a loud, piercing horsey laugh.

I'm afraid it's the dog.....

One thing I have noticed though is they never eat - they are all as sinewy as Madonna cracking walnuts in her sleep. On the one hand of course, they've probably all been out jogging with the de rigeur gundog in the early morning mists whilst I've been dripping Cocopops down my housecoat as I slob out in front of 'It's me or the Dog' on PICK TV. On the other hand, they also don't stop chattering long enough to savour so much as a raspberry and almond bake. Rather like 'Me or the Dog', it's a pleasure I fear they will never know.

Got any Cocopops?

Thus this aviary of lean, fit chirrupers happily chirrup away without the need for breath. My late nan used to put a cover over her budgie's cage at night to shut him up and encourage him to sleep. I am currently investigating where I can get a really large sheet.....

NAME: THE SUITS                                   SPECIES: Salesmen/women

SIGHTING: Various weekday mornings (early) 
CALL: Flat White (in takeaway cups, even though they are drinking in – it's cheaper).                                     Multiple sugar sachets spread over the table

PLUMAGE: Men: Sharpish Suits, flashy watch

Women: Sharpish Suits, flashy shoes

Both: Netbooks except the flashier ones who have an Ipad;

Excess of hair products (particularly the men)

Folders (card or faux leather)

Occasional lanyard

Bunty, we really need to
talk about Donald

The suits can usually be found in groups of 2 or 3, but rarely more than 4. They always, without fail, open the mating call with the: 'how was your journey to Bury St Edmunds?” routine (they all drive so it's usually M11-A11-A14) and the subsequent follow-up:  'where have you parked?'  Then it's on to serious work matters. I have noticed that the women of the flock tend to stick to talking shop (fear of the glass ceiling mayhaps?) whilst the men get easily distracted and chat about other things: expensive watches, expensive gadgets, expensive footballers (especially European), expensive cars and how expensive the fuel is to put into expensive cars these days.

Interestingly, the women rarely join in with these diversions, they just smile, force out little laughs or concentrate on their netbooks/folders until they can bring the meeting back to the subject in hand. I have often wondered if perhaps they're really the big bosses and are secretly making notes.......

Note to self: Donald = short attention span & large ego. Absolute boor, guilty of overpowering aftershave and unnecessarily loud socks – Suggest urgent relocation to the Outer Tunbridge Wells office (East) asap. Also, make sure he returns keys to stationary cupboard before he leaves, noticed abundance of acetate sheets & treasury tags in briefcase.

Simon = complete arse, prone to exaggeration, signs of small penis syndrome, probably cheating on wife with Cindy from Finance – Suggest talk to Bunty in HR and see if we can't send him on immediate 3 month tour of the Home Counties in the Fiat Punto with Dennis from IT.

Each meeting seems to be of absolute vital importance to the world of commerce (although I have rarely been able to ascertain what it is that they are actually selling). The intensity of the conversation is usually matched by the stereotypical sales-speak which in turn matches the intensity of my cringing........

***[I am sad to say that the following are all direct quotes - I have actually heard these shockers being spoken out loud]

Sharp suit Man the Younger: 'You know we are playing with a straight bat here' (knee clench)

Sharp suit Man The Elder: 'Well, it is an offer you can't refuse.....' (head hits the table)

Sharp suit Woman awash in Elnett and CK One: 'I'm happy I know all the answers to any of the Qs and As that will come up in the training session' (slowly slides off the chair into a puddle on the floor).

No, it's the M11, A11 THEN the A14

Do they ever plan or come to a conclusion? I'm not so sure they do. It all seems to be a matter of networking and playing a game of 'whose got the biggest cufflinks, coolest phone or pushiest-uppiest-bra-beneath-a-workshirt/blouse-combination. But I love the fact that these Gordon Gekko wannabes keep right on going even though they are trapped between a couple of Iceland shopping bags in Bury St Edmunds instead of a pair of million dollar portfolios on Wall Street. In any case, they all march off with purpose to their various car parks and back  down the A14-A11-M11 they go never to be seen again. Not until the next lot fly in that is..........

Next Sighting: Last in the series – Laptop Lady

LESSER-SPOTTED SIGHTINGS PART I

Continuing with my birdwatching amongst the Coffee Shop Regulars.......*

*I overhear the conversations because the tables are so close. I'm not spying.... honestly:

A few of the visitors to the coffee shores are more seasonal and not 'regular' enough to be regulars – but regular enough to be noticed.

Here are some of the lesser-spotted sightings.

NAME: THE BORROWERS SPECIES: Middle-aged and middle-class

SIGHTING: Regular weekends                       CALL: A latte

PLUMAGE: Smart Casual Weekend wear, comfortable shoes

As the coffee shop is on the 1^st floor of a book store, it can give the appearance of the reading rooms in the local library. The shop displays its wares around the sides of the tables for people to peruse whilst supping and I have actually heard one woman complain that a particular book had been moved (perhaps horrors above horrors, even sold!) when she was only half-way through reading it – turns out she had been working her way through several pages every time she came in for coffee for the past three weeks and was most miffed when it had been replaced by Stephen Hawking's 'A Brief History in Time' (sorry Mr Hawking, I only got to page 4, but that's another story). It is also quite tempting for people to treat the place as more of a reference library than a money-making operation and it is not unusual for someone to take notes from the stock while they are having a latte, then just leave the book the windowsill along with the empty cup.

Take for instance, the Cookery Man. He comes up the stairs, spectacles on top of his head and laden with several over-sized cook books (food section is on the ground floor). Then he sits and copies out the recipes into an ever-bulging folder.   I haven't noticed any specific food genre – he seems to be drawn more to the actual size of the book – and the bigger the better.  Italian, Tapas or Thai, Jamie, Nigel or Prue, I just can't see any pattern to his selections. Also, he is always alone; I don't know why this should be significant - it probably isn't.  Maybe he holds a lot of dinner parties, or maybe he is tormenting his ex-wife who was always dieting, by anonymously posting recipes of really tasty dishes through her letterbox late at night....

NAME: THE YUMMIES       SPECIES: Female

SIGHTING: School holidays                         CALL: A latte and a croissant for the child

PLUMAGE: Head to foot Boden, Chelsea Tractor Buggy, Accessorised by a small child/baby

Each Yummy is usually accompanied by an ignored toddler who will inevitably stand right next to your chair and stare at you with wide open eyes. You inevitably give an awkward smile back – because anything more than a weak simper may result in the blessed thing sitting down next to you and engaging you in conversation for the next 20 minutes (much to your annoyance and the mother's delight). Within the bowels of the adjoining pram lies the complimentary baby which, by the sound of it's lungs, cannot be more than a few weeks old.  This tiny scrap cannot walk, talk, feed or fend for itself, but can produce the kind of sonic boom that will demolish a 12 story block of flats just by sound alone and indeed, quickly empties most of the tables surrounding it. The mother frantically scrambles through a huge, quilted Mary Poppins bag to find a baby bottle and sort out some carrot sticks for the child, who is still standing 10 inches away from your face – don't make eye contact, don't meet it's gaze, that's all they need, just the tiniest crack and the next thing you know your quiet coffee turns into unpaid child-minding and it'll be covering your fruit 'n' oat fingers in snot before you can say Nanny McPhee.

Of course, all the children get bored within 15 minutes, but the Yummies are determined to preserve a little bit of their pre-stretch mark years and 'catch up with the girls'. They are not going to be deterred by a few bored kids, oh no - they have come prepared: out comes the colouring pencils and Bob's yer uncle, Fanny's yer aunt, you've ended up in some ad hoc Mother & Toddlers-R-Us-With-Coffee-and-a-carrot-stick-Group. “Why don't you draw mummy a lovely picture while she talks to Auntie Philomena?” is the constant refrain. (NB: I've noticed most kids actually dislike colouring, especially in public places and especially when they are expected to do it for longer than 3 minutes). Consequently, very few pictures are produced, still, the Yummies are made of stronger stuff and continue with other activities such as: giving the car keys to the smallest ones as substitute rattles and: setting up “wheels on the bus” with the now empty chairs that are now surrounding them, thanks to mighty lungs in the 4x4 buggy.

Needless to say, none of it works; the children simply don't want to sit indoors at a table and watch their mums talk for an hour and a half; they crave rapid-fire activity.... and most of all, attention. Nine times out of a dozen, the Yummies end up giving the child their iPhone to play with while they chat amongst themselves about the latest hand/eye co-ordination achievements of little Fergus, Bertie, Ffion and Thomasina. And so, in a wonderful sense of missed irony, a communication device replaces communication.

Engage with your child? There's an App for that...

OPINIONS IN CORDUROY

Continuing with my birdwatching amongst the Costa Shop Regulars.......*

*I overhear the conversations because the tables are so close. I'm not spying.... honestly:

NAME: THE PROFESSOR             SPECIES: Academic male (early 60s at a guess)

SIGHTING: Occasional, (mostly Fridays)      CALL: A pot of tea

PLUMAGE: Completely corduroy with a hint of matching polo-neck jumper.  

                   Sensible shoes.

The roll-neck/jacket combination
It's all the rage

The Professor is about 6.4' and is as thin as a stick. He has a mop of long and wild gingery hair which gives him a very distinctive look and one that screams: “I am an academic, don't you know?”   If you can imagine a cross between Rod Hull (of Emu fame) and one of those old Open University Lecturers you used to see on the tv back in the 1970s, you are starting to get the picture. He always wears corduroy trousers (shudders – don't get me started on this personal pet hate) and a corduroy jacket which is invariably matched with a similar coloured polo-neck jumper. He certainly has a style of his own.

I remember the first time he arrived on our doorstep. He bounded up the stairs two at a time (we roost on the first floor of the bookshop) and marched over to inspect the complimentary newspapers. They obviously didn't tickle his fancy, for he loudly declared to the world that he was going across the road to to Beryl's Teashop because their drinks were cheaper and they provided a better calibre of newspapers.  Now granted, he does have a point about the newspapers - Costas only provide the Sun, The Express, The Daily Mail and the Bury Free Press – horses for courses I suppose, but Beryl's coffee is rubbish.

Available from all good bookstores

Well, of course, he came back. Then he came back with one of his friends. And then he came back with a different friend. And now he keeps coming back, although I think he still secretly visits Beryl just to keep himself up-to-date with the broadsheets. When he is alone he tends to read books from the shelves of the bookshop, although I have to say I've never actually seen him buy any. I noticed he was particularly interested in a couple of titles: ' The Victorian Fern Craze' and “The Victorian Home” and I can just imagine that is exactly what his own house looks like: Victoriana and ferns mingled with a mountain of reference books and cluttered pieces of paper.

What's this?  The Telegraph?
I'm off to Costas

However, it is when he is supping with a friend that he really comes alive; then the arms fly and the opinions flow. I think he belongs to another time, perhaps in an 18^th Century Covent Garden coffee house, discussing the Enlightenment or how to cure all the social ills of the Universe. However, he doesn't get angry or irritated with the state of world affairs, in fact, he is often quite jovial about it all; he just seems to enjoy social comment and the flaying arms are only employed to emphasise a point. In just one sitting, I have heard him pontificate on the inner city poor, the Asian market and it's effects on the economy, the problems of the Middle East (yep, all of them), the merits (or otherwise) of Obama, Thatcher, Cameron, Osborne and Milliband and the location of the new toilets in the Shopping Centre. Yet, the really interesting thing – well, to me at any rate – is that although the Professor and his friend appear to be in the middle of an intellectual debate, neither one seems to be actually listening to the other.

For the Professor sees a problem and he has an answer to it - then the friend has an opinion and he states his case and so they end up taking turns to speak.  Each has a pre-ordained point of view or an opinion in their head and the only thing they are focussed on is to get that particular thought out into the open. Thus their “discussion” simply becomes more of a sequence of declarations:

Professor: Of course, the thing with the new toilets is they are miles away from anywhere - right out of the way, just behind Debenhams.

Friend: You wouldn't want to put them slap bang in the middle of the the open plaza area.....

Professor: And no signs! Well, not unless you are coming from the south side of the Centre and then you're practically on top of them anyway.

Friend: I see Milliband has piped up again. Totally ineffectual of course. Always thought his brother was the better option.

Let's forget all our differences
and have a cuppa

So, never mind Westminster, Capitol Hill or Zhongnanhai; the whole world can be put to rights over a pot of tea and right here in sleepy Bury St Edmunds. The tea has long been drunk whilst all this is going on, but there the Professor sits, for goodness knows how long, waving his long arms about like Mr Tickle and jabbing the table with his bony finger to emphasise his point of view. I notice he doesn't wear any rings.  Of course, this may mean squiddly-dot, but I don't get the impression he is romantically involved with anyone; he certainly never mentions any names. And I can't say I'm entirely surprised, as I for one would find it extremely hard to live with that much corduroy and opinions in a confined, Victorian fern-filled space.

Next Sighting: The Lesser-spotted visitors

WHEN SHALL WE THREE MEET AGAIN? (tomorrow morning probs..)

Continuing with my birdwatching amongst the Costa Shop Regulars.......*

*I overhear the conversations because the tables are so close. I'm not spying.... honestly:

These two characters were the original Regulars.

NAME: POISON GRANNIES                    SPECIES: Grannies

SIGHTING: Common, All year                               CALL: 2 Cappuccinos &

                                                                                        a glass of tap water chaser

PLUMAGE: Head to toe Edinburgh Woollen Mill/Marks & Spencers Classic Collection

                  Granny 1 prefers dark, denim jeans with ironed-in creases

                   Heavily wrinkled

                  Thick powder puff (I would guess Max Factor – like my nan used to use)

                  Visible varicose veins - Granny 2 who prefers floral pattern skirts

L'Oreal
Because we're worth it

This pair border on the stereotype. Granny 1 is tall and thin, whilst Granny 2 is short and more rounded. A sort of Laurel and Hardy, but without the hats. The first thing that strikes me is the well-worn skin on their faces. My mother would describe them as having a 'hard face', but I think I prefer the term: 'lived in'. They both wear face powder a shade too dark, which sits in the crevices and only accentuates the problem. Think Keith Richards in lipstick and you start to get the picture. I have concluded that their facial erosion can only be put down to a) smoking, and/or b) frowning. I'm not sure about the first, although I can certainly picture them with a glass of gin in hand and a fag hanging from the corner of their mouth. However, I do have stronger evidence about the frowning. Because they frown a lot, these two; frown and bitch.

A cappuccino &
glass of tap water please

During the whole time I have been sitting here bird-watching, I cannot think of a single occasion when I heard anything pleasant or positive from their table. They simply don't seem to have a kind word to say about anyone which made me think, 'blimey, they're a poisonous couple of individuals' and the name just stuck.

They are the kind of people you could easily imagine sitting there at the end of the family table at Christmas, wearing a paper hat and a scowl that could stun a brussel sprout, just because the turkey has overrun and they are missing the Queen's speech on the telly.  (As an aside, in my experience it is often the most miserable ones who wear the paper hats the longest at Christmas – a strange phenomena, but there it is).

Anyway, they are particularly venomous about one of their neighbours who apparently sits indoors all day, being waited on hand and foot by her son. I get the feeling the grannies wouldn't mind being waited on hand and foot by their offspring given half the chance, for it turns out that this isn't the neighbour's worse crime. Oh no, indeed not..... no, that would be her dreadful curtains: I shall take a large breath and let Granny 1 explain:

“I don't know what she was thinking and I bet she paid the earth for them, though you wouldn't think it to look at them and they don't go with anything because they're the wrong colour and they're much too heavy and will block out the light and I told her, I said, you'll have to have them dry-cleaned because they obviously can't be washed....”

A good mangle
does wonders

And so on. For 15 minutes without hardly drawing breath. Solid. Life doesn't get much more exciting than this, I can tell you.

Young people? “Of course, the problem with young people today is that they just don't wash things like we used to after the war”.

This surprising fact can apparently be pinpointed and laid at the feet of the demise of the mangle.

would you like to come up to my place
and see my curtains?

George Clooney? What on earth could be wrong with Gorgeous George I hear you ask. Well, he cuts no ice in rural Suffolk. Over to Granny 2:

“Well, you know, they had one of his films on the telly last night. I couldn't tell you what is was called, but I watched it 'till about quarter-past ten and then I thought: that's it, I've had enough' and went to bed. Don't know what all the fuss is about.”.

Granny 1 concurs. Poor George would be crushed.

The staff do try and lighten the mood.

Barista: Morning! Isn't it a lovely sunny day? Much better than yesterday. Are you up to anything nice?

Granny 2: No, just visiting my friend. She got run over at the weekend.

I try not to sit at the table next to them if I can help it, because the toxic doom and gloom seeping out from behind the cappuccinos tends to wash over me like a bucket of cold mist.

One does love a good laugh

I have also secretly pledged never to invite them to Christmas dinner at my house for fear that my table linen won't be up to scratch - not to mention that my middle daughter is a huge fan of George Clooney and my turkey always, without fail, overruns. In fact, we haven't seen the Queen's speech in more than 7 years.

Actually, I am not too sure about my curtains either........

Next Sighting:  The Professor

WE FEW, WE HAPPY FEW, WE BAND OF BROTHERS;

Continuing with my birdwatching amongst the Costa Shop Regulars.......

Now, this next up is a very strange one..

NAME:   HENRY V                           SPECIES: Middle-age Male

SIGHTING: Common, All year                         CALL: Cappuccino & a blueberry muffin                                                                                                                            

PLUMAGE: Khaki sleeveless utility jacket (lots of pockets) over navy blue jumper

Red/black North Face jacket (looks new)

Blue check wool scarf

A painting which hangs
in the National Gallery

This chap is a recent addition to the Regulars. He has a very odd hairstyle which instantly reminds me of a painting of Henry V which hangs in the National Gallery. The style is like a very short, pudding-basin haircut - actually, it's less of a pudding-basin and more of a cereal bowl. I'm not sure what he asks for when he visits the barber:

Barber:  “Afternoon sir, and what can we do for you today?”

Henry V: “A short, cereal-bowl cut rather like that painting of Henry V which hangs in the National Gallery please.”

Barber:    “Right you are sir. Doing anything nice at the weekend?”

Henry V: “Oh, you know, nothing much. A relaxing coffee in Costas, before popping over to France for a quick siege at Harfleur, maybe a spot of argy-bargy at Agincourt, then back to Calais in time for tea and some duty free luxuries .... normal weekend really"

Or it could be like the ancient joke my father always likes to tell:

I'd like a Henry V please

Barber:  “Afternoon sir, and what can we do for you today?”

Henry V: "I'd like my hair cut like David Beckham please.”

Barber cuts hair into a short cereal-bowl style, rather like that painting of Henry V which hangs in the National Gallery.

Henry V (outraged):  “But that's not how David Beckham has his hair cut”!

Barber: “Well he would if he came in here sir”.

Boom, boom...

But I digress: Henry V's hair is always very neatly combed, even in inclement weather – which is admirable – and he wears little half-glasses to read the paper (unfortunately, another blessed Daily Mail reader). He often cleans his ear out with his little finger.

He is always alone and seems to be in a constant bad mood, which means he comes across as a right old misery guts. In fact, I often feel he looks upon the rest of us mortals with disdain: something inferior and nasty that he has to put up with - a necessary evil of life. He does a sort of  'cutting his eyes' thing over the top of his glasses (usually with a faint sigh) at people who have irritated him and has a withering look that could stun a crying child at 50 paces.


Henry V particularly dislikes being disturbed by noise when he is reading his paper....

Women talking loudly on the other side of the room? Huff.....

Child whinging for attention from indifferent mummies?Glare.....

Mobile phone conversation on the next table? Grrrr..

Have you seen that painting of
Henry V which hangs in
 the National Gallery?

I have wondered if his gripe with the world rests beneath some deep-seated psychological issue, resulting from an unrequited love. Maybe the only woman in the whole universe who could possibly replace his mother as his soul-mate, rejected his amorous advances and ran off with a plumber from the next village. Oh, the injustice..... Of course, the simple reality may be that his Y-fronts are chafing, but who knows? I'm certainly not going to ask him.

He doesn't appear very popular. The staff never ask how he is and although some of the other Regulars smile at him, he never responds. No-one wishes him a 'good morning', but he doesn't seem to mind - in fact, I think he actually prefers it that way.

Next sighting: The Poison Grannies

BIRDWATCHING WITH COFFEE

The Tiara has not been on good form just lately. Life has taken yet another one of its regular wrong turnings and left me up a gum tree with a leaky paddle. First, I thought I would vent my spleen at the injustice of my lot through my blog, but then the vacuum cleaner broke so the Dyson felt the full force of my wrath instead. The result of all this anger is the vacuum cleaner lies a broken piece of revolutionary engineering in the spare room and I am still shouting at whatever God happens to be passing by.

Thus, with a dusty floor and a heavy heart, I plod off to my local Costa Coffee to sit and watch my world pass by. I often tweet about the regulars that flock there, so I thought as part a creative writing therapy to lift my mood, I would blog about the characters that share my hour every morning between 9 and 10am. They are all real people; their monikers merely protect their identity and save myself from a black eye should any of them ever find out I am writing about them.

Despite an abundance of tea shops, we have two Costa Coffee shops in this town (and a Starbucks, but that's a whole different kettle of mackerel) and they all do a roaring trade with the more elderly population who seem to be more than happy to pay £2.45 for a cappuccino*.

*According to my mother (who purports to know about these things) the older person only ever orders cappuccinos because they know what's coming; whereas (according to her) no-one really knows what a latte involves – it's one of those exotic foreign practices – the unknown, like spaghetti bolognese in the 1970s. My mother feels the same way about pesto and even today, still won't entertain feta cheese.

Anyway, back to the coffee shop sightings. First up is one of my favourites:

NAME: ESPRESSO MAN                                   SPECIES: Elderly Male

SIGHTING: Common, All year                                          CALL: ESpresso, black

PLUMAGE: Raincoat, flat cap, shopping bag

This old fellow orders the smallest, but strongest espresso Costa can make. Espresso man is about 90 years old and I imagine he must have the stomach lining of a mountain goat, because he drinks this stuff every day. A little while back, my husband once tried an espresso. The resulting energy buzz meant he cut the lawns, washed the windows, took the rubbish to the dump and started to sort out the garage. However, the buzz eventually wilted and quickly curtailed this unnatural phenomona of movement. He retired to his bed with a headache, leaving the garage as a work-in-progress - where it remains to this day. He has never touched the coffee again.

Espresso man is a whole different specimen however. He is a tiny, bald Irish man who wears an oversized, beige raincoat and a muddy-green, chequered flat cap. He shuffles when he walks; is always alone and carries a jute shopping bag which appears to be empty apart from a copy of the Daily Mail. He is quite deaf but can cuss in 4 languages (Gaelic, English, Italian and French - I happen to know this for a fact).  He reads the newspaper aloud and whenever he comes across something that he considers ridiculous (which is nearly on every page – it is the Daily Mail after all) then the effing and jeffing begins. Most of the regulars and staff are very fond of the old guy and tend to let him get on with it, but he still causes much consternation to whoever happens to be sitting on the next table (Yummy mummys, tourists and posh people particularly get outraged). Espresso Man says his late wife had kissed the Blarney Stone and could talk and talk and talk; then she got Alzheimer's and everything went quiet... and then she died. His motto to life is: "never live too long".

Apart from me, Espresso Man is the only other customer I have seen to have his coffee delivered to his table.

Next sighting: Henry V

DON'T JUDGE A BOOK BY IT'S SUNGLASSES

A rather irritating thing occurred to me a few weeks ago – initially I let it go, but then almost exactly the same thing happened again this morning. It has really got up my nose which means I should probably write it all down, take it to the window and chuck it out with the rest of the mental garbage I insist on drowning myself with.

So, here goes.......

First, a snippet of background: My back and leg problems have left me in a bit of a state. I try not to use my walking stick – I have a hate/hate relationship with the blessed thing - it's a symbol of everything that is wrong with me and I stubbornly refuse to lie down and give in (at least to the outside world).  I live in a rural area (8 miles to the nearest shop) so I rely on the car.  I have also shoved my pride up my backside and accepted a blue mobility badge, which entitles me to park nearer to places and has admittedly been a great help.

When I received the badge, one of the first things my parents said to me was “well, you'll have to limp more than you do when you get out of the car; otherwise people will think you are cheating”. I was horrified at this suggestion. I have nothing to hide, I didn't blag my way to easy parking - I cannot walk 60/70m without resting and my application was fully supported by my GP, hospital consultant and physio, but it just shows the suspicious society we have sadly become. Now the general consensus is that everyone else is working the system and no-one (especially the law-abiding tax-payer) likes to think they are being short-changed by what they see as the privileges of others – the 'big society' sure is a leaky bucket.

Still, the brush sweeps wide and paints a lovely shade of stereotype. Although a number of people will fit the bill, we now seem to have a media situation where anyone on benefits is probably a 'cheat'; all single-mothers are pony-tailed, teenage miscreants wearing large gold hooped earrings (widows are also single-mothers, but let's not worry about that, it doesn't fit the argument). Oh, and don't forget those pesky teenagers who are all trouble-making hoodies; or how you can only be considered disabled if you are in a wheelchair; not to mention all mental health patients will most certainly push innocent strangers under trains at some point; or all Londoners are either the Notting Hill set or cheeky chappy cockney wide-boys etc., etc.,........I could go on.

But hold on a minute, I've been a few of these. I was born in the East End, and although I am generally cheerful, I don't spend my waking hours walking around with my thumbs in my braces, saying “gawd blimey guv, strike a light, those apple & pears have knackered me out today”. I've been a single-mother (sans ponytail/ earrings); I am now unable to work and have been on benefits in the past (which is not a lot of money for quite a lot of humiliation in the assessment tests). I have suffered mental health problems through depression – but I have never felt the urge to hurt anybody - and now I suppose I'm considered disabled, but I am resisting the wheelchair with all my might.  

However, as it turned out, it would seem that my parents were right...

Which (finally) brings me to my:

'bug up the nose episode of the week.....'

I had parked in a disabled bay outside the supermarket; it was busy and quite a few of the other disabled bays had cars with people sitting in them, presumably while their other half did the shopping, which you are not supposed to do, but is actually quite common practice. Anyway, as I was getting my bag out, an old boy, who was a complete stranger to me, came marching over and demanded to know the 'nature of my disability'. I was so shocked, I told him to mind his own business – whereupon he gave out a diatribe about how his wife was in a wheelchair, implying that she needed the space more than me. Perhaps she did, and I would have been happy to have moved on, if her other half hadn't gone into the “attack mode” straight away. It may have been wrong, but he was told in no uncertain circumstances where to go and I limped off into the supermarket with steam coming out of my ears.

It happened again today, when another old chap accused me of not being disabled – purely on the grounds of what I look like.   He also got a flea in his ear, because I would like to ask: what the hell is a disabled person supposed to look like? And why should they have to look like it? I have spent most of my adult life working in the Artificial Limb Centre in Roehampton, where the doctors and prosthetists work extremely hard to help patients function and appear aesthetically as near normal as possible. Most of the time you couldn't even tell if someone was wearing an artificial limb or not and surely that's the way it should be. 

 The sad thing is that this guy was convinced he was in the right and once he realised I was entitled to park in the spot, he accused me of not displaying the badge properly (it was clearly on show on the dashboard, he just hadn't bothered to look).  He made all of his assumptions and accusations completely without grounds and then refused to take responsibility for them.  The whole episode was unpleasant, upsetting and unnecessary and in the end he marched off without so much of an apology, kiss your ass or anything.  He had no understanding that people who have needs (whether physically or mentally) come in all different guises and need help for all different reasons - some of which will not be immediately visible.  Books and covers come to mind.

I know I am extremely vain and I go out of my way not to look my age or display what is wrong with me.  In fact, I have actually heard someone say:”well, she doesn't look very disabled,” and this observation was made when I have been sitting inside the car.  Well, thanks very much, but I don't want to wear a t-shirt that shouts:

'I AM DISABLED' 

if it's all the same - not because I'm ashamed, but because as far as I'm concerned, that is certainly not what defines me as a human being.

So, I shall still continue to have Pink blaring out of the car stereo when I pull up into a disabled parking bay and I shall refuse to dress my age; I shall keep wearing the eye-liner and Jackie O sunglasses and my only concession to the Daily Mail/Express disabled stereotype are my flat shoes and my stick (which I plan to cover in shiny diamante stickers). As I refuse to conform, I expect I shall be having a few more “discussions” like the one I had today with certain members of the Big Society, which seem to be mostly old boys in Waitrose car-parks. 

I hear so much hullabaloo about equal rights for the disabled and yet, when you try to remain equal, you are immediately labelled (yet again) with blagging the system. The bottom line is you can't have it both ways.

End of rant.....