To see other chapters click here<\/a><\/p>\n Dream – 9th July 2009<\/b><\/p>\n \n At the side of a slip road, somewhere near Barking, East London. A woman is lying next to a car that\u2019s on fire, she\u2019s dying. I am sitting next to her crying. I don\u2019t want her to die.<\/p>\n I am now driving away from the scene. I have another woman sitting next to me. I say,<\/p>\n \u201cI feel the most beautiful pain.\u201d<\/p>\n * * *<\/p>\n My Head<\/b><\/p>\n \n Here is my head, you are panning around me, or I am spinning. It\u2019s hard to tell. I am here looking at me with you. My skin is not wrinkled yet, I am 44. My hair is receding, but lately, I have let it grow a bit longer. Normally I keep it in a crew cut style as most balding men do. Some of my hair is beginning to go white, and those hairs seem thicker and stick out. My skin is pock-marked by teenage acne. Even the word acne sounds a bit like angst. My head is like a spearhead, it\u2019s what people notice first, it\u2019s what touches them before my arms do, and it\u2019s what has guided me, both through its interior and exterior impact on the world. My head is my symbol of humanity. My head is how my spirit touches others, through thoughts, looks, expressions, words and kisses. My head is the interface of my highest and darkest feelings.<\/p>\n \n * * *<\/p>\n \n Coil<\/b><\/p>\n \n If I held a coil in front of you (like a corkscrew for example) and you were to look at it from one end you\u2019d see a circle, from another angle you\u2019d see a spiral and from its side, you\u2019d see a series of peaks and troughs.<\/p>\n \n * * *<\/p>\n \n 2009 – Bruce<\/b><\/p>\n \n Bruce Springsteen is on the radio saying that by the age of 11 most people have already been damaged.<\/p>\n * * *<\/p>\n \n 26<\/b>th<\/b><\/span> January 2008 – Maxim\u2019s Nightclub<\/b><\/p>\n \n I\u2019m in a nightclub in Eastbourne. It\u2019s 2 a.m. and the lights come up. I\u2019m talking to a tall woman with long red curly hair. I glance to my right and see a woman standing nearby. Our eyes catch each other, and we look away. My friend moves and blocks my view, I move so I can see the woman again. She glances at me again. Our eyes hold on to each other. I say \u201cExcuse me\u201d to my friend, then walk towards the woman.<\/p>\n I say, \u201cI think I better give you my card.\u201d<\/p>\n To which she says, \u201cAnd I shall give you mine\u201d.<\/p>\n She\u2019s quite drunk but I try to talk with her; she has a friend with her who translates some of the slurs. \u201cTomorrow, when you\u2019re sober and you don\u2019t want me to contact you,\u201d I say, \u201cthat\u2019s ok\u201d. She looks at me and mouths \u201cNo, you\u2019re beautiful, you\u2019re the one\u201d. As we part she attempts to snog me, but I don\u2019t want to take advantage as she\u2019s drunk, but still, I gently kiss her goodbye.<\/p>\n \n * * *<\/p>\n \n Happiness<\/b><\/p>\n \n On a scale of 1 to 10, how happy are you at this particular moment?<\/p>\n 10 would be the happiest you\u2019d ever felt.<\/p>\n On a scale of 1 to 10, how unhappy are you at this particular moment?<\/p>\n Remember 10 would be a situation where you were being tortured or mortally wounded.<\/p>\n As I write this I feel as if I\u2019m on about 2 on the happiness scale and about 1 on the unhappiness one.<\/p>\n I thought originally that they\u2019d add up mathematically to a total of ten; that if I was at my most unhappy, I could not have any happiness at the same time, but, for me, I found myself feeling both feelings simultaneously.<\/p>\n * * *<\/p>\n When I\u2019m at my happiest, it\u2019s not when I\u2019m most happy. It\u2019s when I feel calm, connected to others, and at peace. Maybe a coolish number 6. When I\u2019m most unhappy, it\u2019s not when I\u2019m feeling the greatest physical pain, but when I feel a sense of separation, loneliness, and meaninglessness.<\/p>\n * * *<\/p>\n Arcs<\/b><\/p>\n \n Another shape I want to add to this visual introduction is an arc. Not the Noah kind, but something like the path a firework follows as it shoots up, then returns to earth. A parabola for all you technical types.<\/p>\n We often mark out our lives as a series of eras, although in my mind they\u2019re a collection of overlapping ones. Places we live, work or receive education, people we love, and political and physical states of being, all these things overlap each other throughout the course of our lives.<\/p>\n My mind tends to see the world in terms of visual metaphors.<\/p>\n \n * * *<\/p>\n \n Watershed<\/b><\/p>\n \n This chapter is partly about watersheds. A simple version of a watershed would be a bit of earth that divides two pools of water, but watersheds can exist on a continental scale, where water falls either towards one ocean or another. It\u2019s not a shed like a garden shed, it comes from, the term for splitting or dividing, \u201cshedding\u201d. Symbolically it\u2019s something between other things, the place where something ends and another begins.<\/p>\n * * *<\/p>\n Summer 1976<\/b><\/p>\n \n I am eleven.<\/p>\n Eleven to thirteen is a watershed age. As Bruce Springsteen mentioned earlier, by eleven most people have experienced the damage that\u2019ll haunt them for the rest of their lives, and whilst most people see thirteen as the changing point, eleven is probably more poignant because it isn\u2019t marked with any ceremony, it\u2019s not even a special number. It\u2019s not a teen, it\u2019s an uncelebrated, insignificant, yet significant turning point.<\/p>\n * * *<\/p>\n 1976 was infamous for its drought-like summer and long traffic jams in England.<\/p>\n \n * * *<\/p>\n \n \n January 2009 – Parliament Memories<\/b><\/p>\n \n I\u2019m driving towards Parliament. A memory of sitting on Phil Bassett\u2019s shoulders aged five comes to me along with an image of a group photo of the occasion. I wonder if six years later, when meeting Mr Bassett at the community centre, either he or my mother remembered the event.<\/p>\n \n * * *<\/p>\n \n Slower Cycles<\/b><\/p>\n \n When I was a child, I would spin around and around till I felt dizzy. As I get older it feels like the cycles I follow in life become slower and bigger. As if the excitement and lows I experienced as a youth, expanded and became less intense. That is of course excluding relationships, which tend to be just as manic at any age.<\/p>\n \n * * *<\/p>\n \n Tao – Cycles<\/b><\/p>\n \n Tao (Pronounced Dow) underpins a lot of Japanese philosophy. Taoism suggests our lives and the universe follow cycles that bring us back to the same point eventually. Just as when you look down the coil of a corkscrew, you see circles, when you travel along the coil you may come to a similar position to where you started only, you\u2019re not exactly where you started, you\u2019ve moved slightly along the spiral too. When you return to the same spot, you are not where you were before because the passing of time creates a different perspective. Even if you start again, all you remember from your previous journey makes the same journey different.<\/p>\n \n * * *<\/p>\n \n 27th January 2008 – Meeting Tracey – Part 1<\/b><\/p>\n \n \u201cHave a look at this text I sent to a woman I met last night,\u201d I say to a friend.<\/p>\n \u201cWhat is it?\u201d<\/p>\n She reads it and laughs, \u201cBlimey if I received that I wouldn\u2019t know what to do.\u201d<\/p>\n The text read, \u201cIf you want to feel the connection again contact me\u201d.<\/p>\n \n * * *<\/p>\n \n 1976 – Significance<\/b><\/p>\n \n Mr Bassett has taken me to an athletics meeting where he\u2019s giving out medals. I lean towards him and say, \u201cOne day I\u2019ll be like them\u201d. I could taste my need for feeling significant. But it wasn\u2019t until I tried athletics that I came to see I was never going to be an athlete. I spoke with the mind of a child and had no idea of my limitations or power.<\/p>\n \n * * *<\/p>\n \n An Unexpected Friend<\/b><\/p>\n \n Growing up is partly about coming to terms with who we are, (or is it that we just learn not to let others know who we are?). One of the ironic things about this is, as we approach a watershed, we become full of fear, believing we\u2019ll never cope with the arduous journey across the land between seas of plain sailing. Yet somehow, we find in ourselves resources we never knew we had, and we discover who we really are through adversity, both our limitations and strengths. Adversity is often an unexpected friend.<\/p>\n \n * * *<\/p>\n \n The Journey<\/b><\/p>\n \n We had to walk from one boat to another across an arid landscape.<\/p>\n She looked at me.<\/p>\n \u201cWe\u2019ve been limping for ages now.\u201d<\/p>\n I stopped my sea gait and replied, \u201cWe\u2019ve been surviving. I\u2019d rather limp than give up\u201d.<\/p>\n She sighs, \u201cI don\u2019t think I can go on, it\u2019s not worth it\u201d.<\/p>\n She lays down with her back to me.<\/p>\n I cuddle up to her.<\/p>\n The sun sets.<\/p>\n The sky goes dark.<\/p>\n She\u2019s angry for a while.<\/p>\n Then she turns around and cuddles me.<\/p>\n There\u2019s a feeling of peace between us.<\/p>\n We fall asleep.<\/p>\n When we wake, she says, \u201cI don\u2019t want to go on\u201d.<\/p>\n I say I do, that it doesn\u2019t feel right not to<\/p>\n She goes quiet.<\/p>\n A bit later, she says she\u2019s happy we\u2019re together.<\/p>\n We walk on, get to the next ship and set sail.<\/p>\n Soon we\u2019ll come to another crossing.<\/p>\n We\u2019re not going around in circles.<\/p>\n We\u2019re following a spiral.<\/p>\n But I don\u2019t know if this coil of ours,<\/p>\n Is mortal or if our love is eternal.<\/p>\n \n * * *<\/p>\n \n An Ending is the Beginning of Another Story<\/b><\/p>\n \n I\u2019m reading a book at the moment about a man with a dog\u2019s head, I\u2019m only a third of the way through it and already I\u2019m sad that it\u2019ll end. There are the characters I met in books decades ago who I still remember like old friends.<\/p>\n \n * * *<\/p>\n \n Losing Me<\/b><\/p>\n \n The more I love someone, the more fear I have of losing them. The more I fear losing them the more I lose myself and the more they lose me.<\/p>\n \n * * *<\/p>\n \n 2008 – Meeting Tracey – Part 2<\/b><\/p>\n \n The day after I sent the \u201cconnection\u201d text I got a reply asking if I wanted to meet in a pub. So, we arranged to meet up the next day.<\/p>\n \n * * *<\/p>\n \n 1976 – Roundshaw Juniors – The Last Day<\/b><\/p>\n \n I do not remember the last day of junior school and whether I was sad about it ending, but it didn\u2019t mark me. There\u2019s always that thought one has, \u201cThis will be the last time I do\u201d such and such a thing, but stepping off this vessel was a relief, it had been an arduous journey at times.<\/p>\n My mother told me, \u201cSchool days are the best days of your life\u201d, but they weren\u2019t for me and no doubt telling me that had me believing life was gonna be pretty awful. If anything though, living on Roundshaw meant that we\u2019d all remain nearby, so maybe it felt like the era hadn\u2019t ended after all. It was just arcing to the ground and fading out.<\/p>\n \n * * *<\/p>\n \n 1976 – Five Holidays<\/b><\/p>\n \n My mother arranged for me to have five holidays during the summer break. She almost certainly struggled to raise the money and sacrificed her pleasure for me, but at the time I probably just felt she was just getting rid of me.<\/p>\n \n * * *<\/p>\n \n Holiday 1<\/b><\/p>\n \n It doesn\u2019t matter what I do, the same curiosity about me arises in most people. How do I go to the loo, how do I masturbate, how do I have sex, how do I wash and how do I dress?<\/p>\n Up until holiday 1, going to the loo had been an activity that I\u2019d received help with. Look this bit\u2019s going to be a bit difficult for both you and me, so I guess either you skip this section or we grit our teeth and bear it.<\/p>\n \n * * *<\/p>\n \n Changes<\/b><\/p>\n \n When I was in my early twenties I was sitting in a waiting room in a hospital when a man with half legs and half arms walked in. He was dressed very well and as we chatted, I found out he did a very well-to-do job. But during this conversation, he told me he had to have help with dressing and personal care. He\u2019d always been helped and didn\u2019t realise there were ways of being more independent. I showed him a few of my techniques for dressing and he went off.<\/p>\n We met again a year or so later and he informed me our previous meeting had changed his life. He\u2019d learned to dress, left his parents\u2019 home and started to live independently.<\/p>\n \n * * *<\/p>\n \n Independence<\/b><\/p>\n \n None of us are truly independent, we are interdependent. We may go through periods in our lives when we feel we\u2019re independent, but either before then or later, we\u2019re going to need others\u2019 help to support us, both physically and emotionally. So before exalting independence as the new ideal, I believe it\u2019s best to keep it in perspective.<\/p>\n Our value, not only to others but to ourselves can\u2019t be judged on whether we can \u201clook after\u201d ourselves. Throughout history, people who seemed to have been a burden have become kingpins in our society\u2019s development. Nelson, Roosevelt, Bader, and Hawkins spring to mind immediately.<\/p>\n Now you may think, \u201cWell he would say that wouldn\u2019t he.\u201d But for me, the struggle has been the opposite way around. I\u2019ve spent many years dealing with my desire to be independent. A Super Crip. However, we are human beings, not human doings. What shines from us is something in our being, the motivation behind why we do things. I\u2019m impressed by Mike Tyson\u2019s physical prowess as a fighter but disturbed by his hatred. I\u2019m just as impressed by Leonard Cohen\u2019s desire to improve his and our emotional world as I am with his talent.<\/p>\n I have met people who are lightly disabled, and their parents have prayed for them to die. I teach some people who can\u2019t speak properly and are only able to move their head and many people think they shouldn\u2019t live.<\/p>\n \n * * *<\/p>\n \n Holiday 1<\/b><\/p>\n \n Holiday 1 is a catalyst for me.<\/p>\n I had been going to the Diamond Riding School for the Disabled in Carshalton for a few years. Set amidst fields and small holdings it was a world away from Roundshaw. One of the teachers from my school, Mrs Gee, would often run me to the stables in her car after school. Whilst waiting for my turn to go around the arena a million times at 1 mph I\u2019d sit and chat to the other kids. The place smelt of manure.<\/p>\n We were taught to muck out the stables, put on saddles and all the other bits and pieces the girls seemed so interested in. Once on the horse or pony, we\u2019d trot around the arena, alternating from trudging to learning how to do rising trudge (I mean trot). Sometimes the horse would break into a canter and I\u2019d be holding on for dear life. For an extra laugh the instructor, normally a Hymie-faced man called Malcolm, would have us ride bareback. I can\u2019t tell you how much I enjoyed that.<\/p>\n Mainly I\u2019d be given a docile little dark brown rotund pony called Bramble, whom I had an unspoken pact with, which was if I allowed her to do almost nothing except sniff the ground, she would not throw me off – increasingly likely the less she did.<\/p>\n Sometimes I\u2019d get a chestnut horse who would delight in rearing up at which point I\u2019d dive head-first into the sand which would result in the session ending. A great result for both of us.<\/p>\n Malcolm thought he\u2019d try me out on jumping. Admittedly the jump was only about two feet high, however, Bramble would consider this a breach of our pact and would either do a Judo throw on me at the final approach or do a five-foot-high jump, banging the back of my head on her rear and then the front of my face into her neck bone. Needless to say, I wasn\u2019t a natural and didn\u2019t get too much joy from it all.<\/p>\n Where there\u2019s horse muck there\u2019s money, and many of the \u201chelpers\u201d were local rich people keeping themselves amused. Occasionally we\u2019d be invited to their garden parties only to find their garden was bigger than our local park and it had its own swimming pools and tennis courts.<\/p>\n * * *<\/p>\n This year the riding centre decided to hold a week-long holiday. We were all to camp in the field behind the stables and go out to different places each day. This would have been far more fun if I had organised for someone to help me in the loo, specifically with regards to wiping my bottom. Sadly, I shared a tent with a helper who didn\u2019t like me, and I didn\u2019t like him, so, I wasn\u2019t going to ask him and for the first time, I felt too ashamed to ask anyone else.<\/p>\n Three days without going for a crap resulted in me waking in the middle of the night in severe pain and nausea. My dislike and shame were set aside, and I asked the helper in my tent if he\u2019d help, but he looked at me from the comfort of his sleeping bag and told me to wait \u2018til the morning.<\/p>\n I then made my way across the cold damp field to Malcolm\u2019s tent, he was asleep but after I woke him, he said he\u2019d come and help me in a minute, but I waited outside the chemical toilet because I didn\u2019t know where the actual toilet was. I was cold and the place stunk so I took myself back to my tent and finally got back to sleep. The next day Malcolm got a helper to help me, but the trauma of that night instigated an investigation by myself into how to cope with going to the toilet without someone else helping me.<\/p>\n * * *<\/p>\n If you don\u2019t have arms long enough to wipe your bottom then what do you do? There are three main approaches: Use other parts of your body, such as your foot or heel; use your environment \u2013 e.g. put some paper across the rim and side of the toilet bowl, or find another appropriate object (At this point anyone who\u2019s had me in their house is wondering what the fuck I\u2019ve wiped my arse on and just for safety\u2019s sake are going to fumigate and decorate the whole bathroom); and finally one can use a purpose-built design, such as a loo with a built-in water spray and bottom dryer, a bidet, a shower, or some other kind of con-craption, sorry, contraption, that\u2019ll hold the paper and either be positioned nicely for the job or held and manoeuvred to taste. So, these are just a few of the wonderful ways in which one\u2019s bottom can be kept squeaky clean without the use of hands. Happy now? Just so you know I keep my anus so clean you could eat a meal off it.<\/p>\n * * *<\/p>\n So that was Holiday 1, a painful learning experience.<\/p>\n * * *<\/p>\n \n Holiday\u00a02<\/b><\/p>\n \n We had been to Broadstairs a few years running, originally Michael the psychopath had taught me to shoot on an arcade shooting gun there. We had also played mini-golf, and I had been allowed to watch the \u201cBionic Man\u201d in the proprietor\u2019s lounge once. Aside from cutting my legs on some rocks though, not very much happened on our trips to this place.<\/p>\n My mother had come here with her family when she was a child and since then not much has changed. Its charm lies in the feeling it gives out of a bygone age. Italian ice cream parlours selling Knickerbocker Glories, crowded beaches, Punch and Judy shows, arcades full of penny waterfalls, fishing nets, rubber rings, bed and breakfast, and quiet cordiality.<\/p>\n * * *<\/p>\n One day my mother took me to meet the parents of Ian, the man she\u2019d regretted leaving when she was a young woman. She dressed me in my new school uniform, I was no doubt on display, a message to her long-lost lover. We sat eating sandwiches and cakes in the conservatory. At one point the mother said that if she had me in her care she\u2019d knock me into line. I was not impressed, and no doubt neither was my mother. A quiet and polite retreat to our single mother and son B&B room brought her dream of a reunion to its end.<\/p>\n * * *<\/p>\n I would come here again as an adult, more in passing than to stay. Even in 2005, it felt as though I\u2019d time-warped back to the 1950s.<\/p>\n \n * * *<\/p>\n \n Torso<\/b><\/p>\n \n My Torso is turning in front of you now. My arms, as you\u2019re probably already aware end around the elbows. My chest is hairy. I am not fat, (well that\u2019s a matter of opinion apparently), but I have put on weight. When I was young my torso was well-toned. I have broad shoulders and a large chest.<\/p>\n My arms have defined much of what I have experienced in my life but just as they are physically placed, so metaphorically too they are a side issue. My torso defines the paradox of my life, that I am abnormal whilst normal. I am different and yet the same. My torso is the place where I feel emotions the most: my heart; my gut; my back; my kidneys; my bladder; and my stomach. One day when my heart stops, my brain may have a moment longer to live, but soon it will stop working too. My torso is where my life starts, feels the drama and ends.<\/p>\n \n * * *<\/p>\n \n 2008 \u2013 January – Meeting Tracey – Part 3<\/b><\/p>\n \n I walked into the pub, the drunk woman with the business card wasn\u2019t there yet, so I went to the bar and got myself a drink. I sat near the door on a comfy chair and waited. I couldn\u2019t quite remember what she looked like, so each woman who walked in was a possible candi-date.<\/p>\n \n * * *<\/p>\n \n Holiday 3 – Four Winds<\/b><\/p>\n \n The Thalidomide Trust had developed holiday homes designed to cater for families with \u201cchildren of Thalidomide\u201d. In terms of catering for any special needs, the provisions were basic compared to today\u2019s standards, but their main intent was to also provide shelter in terms of stigma. Even though I wasn\u2019t a Thalidomide \u201cSurvivor\u201d my mother and I were still welcome to stay at the centres. Mum chose a guest house called Four Winds in a place called Norman\u2019s Bay.<\/p>\n The main proprietors were a couple who\u2019d had a son born with no arms as a result of Thalidomide. The father had been a cook in the army and the mother was a thin force to be reckoned with.<\/p>\n When we first arrived we had to spend the night in a caravan in the garden which backed onto the beach. Soon after getting unpacked a big storm took hold. My mother lit the little gas lights and warmed a can of something on the tiny cooker. As the lightning and thunder interweaved the gusts of wind, the swaying caravan had us cowering.<\/p>\n After such a long dark night came a bright fresh morning. The sun shone hard while the wind blew cold air upon us as we stepped out of the caravan. We were at the end of a long garden that ended gradually where the pebbly beach began. At the other end stood the main guest house. A square of geometric outcrops of white. At the back was a conservatory, and between us and them were various gaming props, such as a table tennis table, a pole with a string with a tennis ball attached, a table football game and other swingy things!<\/p>\n Mum walked down to the beach and pulled shells from the groins, brought them back and boiled them in a pan of water. She gave me a mussel to eat, but all I experienced was a mouthful of sand and grit. She pulled a winkle from a shell with a pin, \u201cCome on,\u201d she said, \u201cjust try it\u201d. I refused, and she laughed.<\/p>\n We walked to the house and were introduced to the other detainees, most of whom were just about to set off back to abnormality. We\u2019d come a day early \u2013 hence our temporary accommodation \u2013 so we were outsiders for a few hours until it was our turn to become old-timers.<\/p>\n Norman\u2019s Bay was a quiet place, a row of houses next to a campsite, a local shop run by two old sisters, a long platformed empty train station, a manually operated level crossing, the beach and the sea. A road in, and when the level crossing barrier was up, a road out.<\/p>\n \n * * *<\/p>\n \n It was 1976, and groups of men and boys sat in darkened rooms where the sun broke through cracks in the curtains casting beams through smoke onto tins of beer. Loud cheers and groans would emanate following the plight and struggle of a football team. But I was not a fan and played outside, and as mum had brought down my bike, I explored.<\/p>\n \n * * *<\/p>\n \n I don\u2019t live far from Norman\u2019s Bay now and often cross the crossing on my way to Bexhill. Now, in 2008, the person who operates it sits in a grey Portacabin, but back then the platform had a building on it \u2013 more of a shack \u2013 in which the \u201cStation Master\u201d had his own office and to the side of that a small waiting room. Now the platform is empty except for a small plastic \u201cstand-in\u201d shelter. (Update, nowadays in 2022 the crossing is fully automated).<\/p>\n How I managed to befriend the \u201cStation Master\u201d back then is beyond me now. No doubt if I did, we would have paedophiles rushing to take notes. Children, well me at least, seemed oblivious to the possible dangers of befriending adults, so back then I still did.<\/p>\n And so, John, the white-haired, station master, ticket seller, ticket checker, cleaner, administrator, and level-crossing operator, would make me cups of tea, tell me stories of his life and allow me to help open and close the gates. My mother would come to politely check I wasn\u2019t causing trouble, but beyond that, I was pretty much unsupervised. John would say, \u201cI don\u2019t know why people check to see if a train\u2019s coming, we\u2019re not going to leave the gate open when a train comes, and anyway even if a train was coming it\u2019d be so fast it\u2019d be too late anyway.\u201d<\/p>\n This never reassured me and even now I always do an extra look to see if a train\u2019s coming and think of John.<\/p>\n \n * * *<\/p>\n \n The road that led eastwards from Normans Bay, was made of rough sandy-coloured concrete, and weaved around the railway track until it hit Cooden Beach. I would tentatively cycle the route and each time go a little further, so within a few days, I had managed to stray the ten miles that got me to Hastings, or more importantly, its funfair.<\/p>\n Each day I visited the fair, where I found one particular ride I thought I might be able to master. The challenge was to lie face down on a very large circular platform, feet outwards whilst holding on to a raised nub in the centre. The idea was to hold on tight to the central hub whilst the disk spun until either the ride came to an end, or you were sent flying off onto an array of air cushions around the edge.<\/p>\n On this occasion, I advised my fellow riders to hold on to the person opposite\u2019s wrists which was both good and bad advice. Bad in the sense that they all flew off almost immediately and good in the way it left me as the only rider holding on. Perhaps because my arms were so much shorter, in fact, my whole body was so much shorter, the full effect of the centrifugal force was not as strong on me, or maybe it was just that the ride\u2019s operators felt for me and didn\u2019t spin it to its full velocity, though I do remember they tried several jerky speed ups and slowdowns, but anyway I didn\u2019t get thrown off. I held on and managed to have a hold over not only the ride but all those watching. Apart from my fellow hangers-on who were probably cursing me, everyone seemed to be either impressed or somewhat moved. Had I not been disabled the feeling would have been different and, whilst I took some pride in my prowess, I felt embarrassed because I knew that there was this other, contaminating dimension. Being praised for being disabled and doing well felt like it took something away. As far as I was concerned, I just wanted to be recognised for simply doing well and that was it.<\/p>\n I was beginning to become aware of the duality of my situation. I would gain recognition for my pursuits, but it would be measured with a different yardstick that inevitably meant my significance was undermined, presumed lesser in some way. I was, \u201cGood considering\u201d.<\/p>\n \n * * *<\/p>\n \n When the ride stopped the man running the ride said over the loudspeaker system, \u201cWell done Simon\u201d \u2013 given he knew my name I\u2019d no doubt chatted to him too \u2013 and the \u201caudience\u201d applauded me.<\/p>\n \n * * *<\/p>\n \n \n The first week was nearly ending and Mum was going to have to leave me in the care of the proprietors for a few days. I probably would have been okay with this had I not fallen out with their son, who had even shorter arms than I. Maybe I couldn\u2019t stand being \u201cout disabled\u201d by him. As is usual, the cause of the fight between us is blurry now, but an underlying automatic dislike, combined with him being a bit older and wanting to exert some authority over me, led to an explosion from me when he wouldn\u2019t let me play snooker. I ran towards him, teeth gnarling, only to be met by a good hard kick in the chest which knocked me backwards. I moved forward once again, and he kicked me again; unperturbed and slightly more angrily, I lunged at him once more. This time my teeth were gnashing. He kicked me again. And so, like a clockwork machine, we continued this dance for a further few seconds. Nearby a blind man, who by the way was extremely good at playing dominoes, asked if everything was alright. My opponent politely said, \u201cIt\u2019s okay.\u201d And that riled me even more, and seeing the despair in my eyes, my opponent started to laugh at me. In temper and frustration, tears streamed down my face.<\/p>\n He taunted, \u201cOh is the baby crying?\u201d<\/p>\n I lunged again but to no avail.<\/p>\n \u201cOoh, temper, temper!\u201d he said in a pantomime tone.<\/p>\n I punched his leg out of the way which allowed me to get closer. I took a swipe at him with my arm but missed. His knee drew up and he pushed me away again. Someone pulled me off saying, \u201cCalm down you two.\u201d We stood staring at one another, enemies for the rest of the holiday.<\/p>\n \n * * *<\/p>\n \n Just before Mum had left, I went to her room. She came out of the shower.<\/p>\n \u201cOoh I needed that, can you smell a funny smell?\u201d She asked.<\/p>\n \u201cNo,\u201d I said.<\/p>\n \u201cIt\u2019s just sometimes a woman can smell more than others\u201d.<\/p>\n I didn\u2019t know what she meant.<\/p>\n \u201cSimon, can you go to the shop and buy me some Nivea, please? You can have an ice cream\u201d.<\/p>\n So I walked the 50 yards to the shop. There was a different woman there. She took the money and passed me a container. I dashed back with the hand cream, which turned out to be an empty container, so Mum, not amused, sent me back with it. When I got there the woman who normally serves was there and took some persuading about what had just ensued. I stood there while she asked pointed questions as to what exactly had happened and eventually handed over another small container of Nivea whilst tutting something about \u201cI told her not to touch anything or serve anyone\u201d.<\/p>\n * * *<\/p>\n 2009 – Shop<\/b><\/p>\n \n That shop stands unoccupied now, it\u2019s moderately dilapidated but still has the word, \u201cShop\u201d faintly painted on one of the external walls. One of the sisters waits out her last days in a home. In 2004 I put a note through the door saying if ever it was to come up for sale, I\u2019d be interested in buying it, but I heard nothing.<\/p>\n * * *<\/p>\n \n 2010 – Shop<\/b><\/p>\n \n I often drive to Normans Bay, but this time, Steve and Sue B, my girlfriend at the time, not the one from Jollymead, are with me to shoot a video nearby. I notice a For Sale sign on the old shop and take down the number of the estate agents. I look online and see it has a guide price of \u00a3235,000 which is worth considering.<\/p>\n A few days later I get to look inside, and I\u2019m blown away by the potential of the place. It has four massive rooms, plus many bedrooms\u2026 it\u2019s so dilapidated that plants are growing through the windows and around the walls. If I was to sell my house and get it for the guide price I could do it up, reduce my mortgage by half and have a bigger, better home. I ask a surveyor to come around the property with me who agrees with both my calculations and ideas about its potential.<\/p>\n The auction will take place within a week or so, so I started calling bridging loan companies. One of my relations agreed to lend me enough money for the deposit (\u00a330,000) so by the time the auction comes I\u2019m ready. There\u2019s an element of gambling going on because I haven\u2019t got a mortgage in place and if I get it, I\u2019ll only have 28 days to get all the finances in place.<\/p>\n When the day comes Steve accompanies me to the auction, which is in the Hilton in Brighton. I have spoken to my solicitor who tells me of a man who tried to run out of an auction after accidentally bidding too high. He was chased across a park in London, tackled to the ground and made to pay the deposit. Suffice it to say, the atmosphere was tense.<\/p>\n As the first four properties sold a few didn\u2019t make their reserve prices. So, when it came to Lot 28, \u201cSunshine\u201d, Normans Bay I was a bit shocked to see the initial bids start at the guide price and steadily climb to \u00a3375,000. I didn\u2019t even bother raising my card. We got up, walked out, chatted to a couple of other people who had hoped to get it as well and went off for some lunch on the seafront.<\/p>\n The last few weeks had been full of fantasies about doing the place up and what it would be like to live there, but they were not to be and yet another house joined the ranks of places I occasionally pass which represent different lives I might have had.<\/p>\n \n * * *<\/p>\n \n 1976 – Norman\u2019s Bay<\/b><\/p>\n \n When Mum left the next day, she bought me a fishing rod, sadly she didn\u2019t teach me to fish. So, wondering if she meant for me to be self-sufficient while she was gone I felt a mild form of panic and a bit sad. I went fishing in a brook, but didn\u2019t catch a thing.<\/p>\n The good thing about not having Mum there was I could stay up late watching TV and for the first time in my life, I noticed a feeling of pleasure, as I looked at the curve of a woman\u2019s hip to waist. Admittedly it was Raquel Welch, walking down a staircase wearing only a bikini in a film called Fathom. It was not so much about being turned on, but more a feeling of being drawn by the look of a woman.<\/p>\n The next day the proprietors took me to Camber Sands and as their 18-year-old daughter walked around in a white bikini I just stared and stared until either she or her parents told me off.<\/p>\n \n * * *<\/p>\n \n Aesthetic Appreciation<\/b><\/p>\n \n I\u2019ve heard it said that as a child hits puberty they receive less physical affection from their parents and consequently look for it elsewhere, but the feelings I started to experience were different. They were nature kicking in and my perception changed accordingly. I had already felt that women were intrinsically related to romance and love, but now there was a further feeling, an aesthetic appreciation, a sexual awareness, a desire.<\/p>\n * * *<\/p>\n Fair<\/b><\/p>\n \n On the last day of this holiday, the local community held a fair that went on into the night. Our proprietor cooked ring doughnuts and shouted out that he was going for a world record. I felt so excited to be part of such a prestigious event, but then my mother, who\u2019d rejoined me, by the way, told me he was joking, and not realising I was a fool, I felt quite disappointed.<\/p>\n In 2010, when I was looking around the shop to buy it, I spoke to a local man who remembered those days. He said, \u201cThat was when there was a sense of community, but it doesn\u2019t exist anymore.\u201d<\/p>\n This lack of community has been around for many decades now, so it\u2019s not surprising that Facebook has become so popular. After all, in its way, it\u2019s creating a kind of feeling of community. Even in the sense of my neighbours, I\u2019m linked to a few on Facebook, so, there\u2019s a type of extra dimension of relatedness that exists between us now.<\/p>\n * * *<\/p>\n \n The Centre of My Body<\/b><\/p>\n \n The centre of my body is an interface too. It is where different worlds meet. The internal world comes out to the external one and it is where I can physically manifest a \u201cconnection\u201d with an \u201cother\u201d. I\u2019m not sure if I should spin the middle of my body, I might end up getting arrested. But it is important in terms of procreation, making love, digestion and ridding oneself of waste. It is where the material world and the spiritual world meet. It is \u201cbetween\u201d. It is between my head, which attempts to connect spiritually and my feet which touch the ground.<\/p>\n \n * * *<\/p>\n \n 2008 – Meeting Tracey – Part 4<\/b><\/p>\n \n When she walked through the door, she didn\u2019t look as I had remembered at all. We got another drink and sat down to talk. She wore a big rust-coloured jumper, had brushed-back blonde hair, and was a bit out of breath.<\/p>\n \u201cHi, sorry I\u2019m late.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cYeah, you should be,\u201d well, I didn\u2019t say that\u2026 instead what came out was, \u201cDon\u2019t worry, what would you like to drink?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cA large white\u201d, God, there\u2019s so much one could say to that, I thought, but instead I waddled over to the bar and chatted up the barmaid.<\/p>\n \n * * *<\/p>\n \n My Legs<\/b><\/p>\n \n Above the knees, my legs are normal, but below them, they are about five inches shorter than they should be. Two bones normally hold the ankle joint in place for most people, but I only have one there. (My lower leg is thinner as well as shorter.) Maybe my disability or the surgery that was performed on my legs caused my lower legs to be stunted, but perhaps that was for the best. Had my lower legs been longer with just one bone, then possibly they would have been more brittle. Also being short may help me with dealing with the world with short arms \u2013 except in supermarkets of course, where I often have to scramble out of freezers I\u2019ve fallen into or get released from my mountain climbing harness when hanging from top shelves. Still, even then, the frequent approaches by women offering to help me \u201cwith anything\u201d makes it all worthwhile.<\/p>\n My legs are a metaphor for seeing the positive in what appears to some as negative. My legs acted as arms and hands when I was a child, and as a young man, they powered me around on a bike, protected me in fights and wrapped around the women I wanted to hold in bed. My legs are a symbol of being more than what we are defined as.<\/p>\n \n * * *<\/p>\n \n Holiday 4 – Bournemouth<\/b><\/p>\n \n There\u2019s a photo of me sitting in a wheelchair in Bournemouth, this was Mum\u2019s bright idea for dealing with the steep hills there and my leg\u2019s limitations. I don\u2019t look very happy in the photo, it wasn\u2019t so much that I felt bad about being in a wheelchair, more a case of it not being true. It\u2019s like when people say, \u201cSo, this must have been Thalidomide.\u201d Whilst nodding at my arms. What difference does it make to me whether it was or wasn\u2019t? It\u2019s just a need to be accurate that makes me correct them on the matter. However, there have been many times in my life when I was quite happy not to be too accurate, namely with girlfriends and the police.<\/p>\n So, I\u2019m on holiday literally being pushed around by my mum, and occasionally creating an impression of a miracle occurring particularly when I managed to get out of the wheelchair for a quick stretch. For me though, the highlight of the holiday was watching my mum\u2019s friend, Jackie, who was staying in the same room, getting changed in front of me.<\/p>\n \u201cMaybe I shouldn\u2019t undress in front of Simon,\u201d she said \u2013 I was tempted to say, \u201cDon\u2019t be silly.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cOh, don\u2019t worry Jackie, Simon\u2019s too young to notice.\u201d my mum thankfully reassured her.<\/p>\n \u201cHe doesn\u2019t look too young, he can\u2019t take his eyes off my body.\u201d<\/p>\n I looked away and pretended not to look at her.<\/p>\n Apart from that, this was a typical British holiday: guest house; beach; befriending other beach dwellers; playing with the sand; paddling in the sea; guest house dinners; TV and bed.<\/p>\n One family we made friends with had a beach hut, which we got invited into when it rained. The \u201cfamily\u201d consisted of a woman, her husband and two sons. Nine months later, Mum and I would return to stay with them, but by then the father had died. His sons would then show me the porn magazines and weapons their father had kept in his chest of drawers and then for fun, we threw tissues out of the window which we\u2019d watch float down the street till they\u2019d finally tumble to the road. We did this until the whole box was empty and we saw our mums walking up the tissue-covered road, created unbeknown to them by their artistic offspring. Perhaps the boys meant it symbolically like they wanted the tears to stop falling or maybe it was just simply interesting to watch tissues float away on the wind, and then to see our mark upon the world.<\/p>\n Bournemouth held a moment of significance though. Sitting on the beach near me was a deaf girl, and as we played together and communicated with each other by drawing in the sand, I felt a sense of connection with her. I can\u2019t explain \u201cconnection\u201d. How is it we know immediately, with some strangers, that we\u2019ll feel right with them?<\/p>\n \n * * *<\/p>\n \n January 2008 – Meeting Tracey – Part 5<\/b><\/p>\n \n We sat down next to each other on the pub couch. I asked her about her life.<\/p>\n \u201cYou\u2019re different to other men I\u2019ve met.\u201d She said.<\/p>\n \u201cIs that good?\u201d I ask and laugh.<\/p>\n \u201cYou\u2019re interested in me, most men just tell me about themselves.\u201d<\/p>\n I laugh again, \u201cFunny most people think I like the sound of my own voice too.\u201d<\/p>\n She looks a bit concerned, \u201cSo is it just a way of chatting women up?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cMaybe, but you know what, I don\u2019t feel like talking about myself right now, it\u2019s not about showing you my CV. I mean you can go online if you want to find out about me.\u201d<\/p>\n She raises an eyebrow, \u201cI already did.\u201d<\/p>\n I laugh and say, \u201cIt\u2019s about getting on, connecting, and being interested. Funny when we met, I felt a powerful draw towards you, something in your eyes, but now we\u2019re here chatting, maybe it\u2019s just a friendly connection.\u201d<\/p>\n She put her hand on my thigh.<\/p>\n \u201cI don\u2019t know,\u201d she said.<\/p>\n I could feel myself feeling turned on. She leant across and kissed me.<\/p>\n \n * * *<\/p>\n \n Holiday 5 Jollymead \u2013 Dartmoor<\/b><\/p>\n \u00a0<\/b><\/p>\n My last holiday in 1976 was a return to Jollymead, the place on Dartmoor. Sue (not the same one as in 2010, but the one I\u2019d met at Jollymead previously) was there, but so too was another boy. He had no hands. As the week progressed, my need for Sue pushed her towards the loving arms of this \u201cinterloper\u201d. So much so that he and I had two fights. One in which he put his stumps around my throat to strangle me, but, given the missing fingers, this turned out to be futile, so I pushed him off. The second was far more spectacular and involved a few moves I\u2019d learned from some American TV series. This involved him running at me to push me over and me falling backwards and kicking upwards sending him flying in the air. He got up, grabbed a stone and as he pulled back to throw it at me, Robbie intervened. Needless to say, Sue went off with him and I went home heartbroken.<\/p>\n \n * * *<\/p>\n \n My Feet<\/b><\/p>\n \n I was born with two feet, but now I only have one. More about that another time. My remaining foot is twisted and only has four toes. My feet are a reminder to me of my limitations and my mortality. The foot that\u2019s gone is a part of me that has already died and is no longer here. Its absence is both a reminder of a spiritual world and a very mechanical physical one. Mechanical in terms of my prosthesis and the mechanics of my nervous system which tells me I can still feel my foot even though it died over four decades ago.<\/p>\n My feet connect me to the world, they get tired, they ache, and they are my trusted steeds. They remind me I am human and keep me firmly planted to the ground.<\/p>\n * * *<\/p>\n 2008 – Meeting Tracey – Part 6<\/b><\/p>\n \n When we leave the pub, we walk to my car and I drive her to hers. We kiss goodbye and it feels good. We will see each other again, I know it.<\/p>\n * * *<\/p>\n 1976 – Sexual Feelings<\/b><\/p>\n \n In the summer of 1976, I became sexualised, but I wasn\u2019t sexually aware. I didn\u2019t know what it was I wanted. I just knew I wanted something. A new era shot into the sky and is still arcing above me now.<\/p>\n I would soon be starting at a new school again. A week before my new school started, I got up early, put on my new school tracksuit and tried going for a run, but no sooner had I got around the corner than I started to feel out of breath and my feet started hurting. They were both real back then. I had the correct clothes, but something wasn\u2019t quite right. There was this idea of myself but as it came up against reality, I experienced pain and breathlessness. This was the beginning of another arc, the arc of self-awareness.<\/p>\n * * *<\/p>\n 2010 August – Dream<\/b><\/p>\n \n I\u2019m in The Chelsea Arts Club and Paul McCartney is chatting with me. I just found out that a woman I\u2019ve been flirting with is his wife, so I\u2019m feeling a little uncomfortable. Lots of people are coming up to him to ask for his autograph. I look at them all and tell them off for being rude. Then I ask if he\u2019d like to do a bit of songwriting with me.<\/p>\n As you can see my Arc of Self Awareness still has a long way to go before it reaches its peak.<\/p>\n * * *<\/p>\n