The Isle of Wight; not really devil’s island but it’s a term of affection used by my mate Peter. On Friday, I manfully made my way to that sceptered isle via Waterloo Station and the Wight-link fast cat. At Portsmouth Harbour there was a delay. No ramps! I had to stand teetering on the edge of the step shouting frantically for anyone who could hear me. Of course, someone did. A nice lady who looked slightly bohemian and well travelled summoned the fat controller. Weekday trains outside the peak times throw up a real variety of travellers. Apart from this helpful woman, there were backpackers, burdened with huge rucksacks and Old-Testament beards. They would throw their mini citadels across a row of seats, claiming their own little piece of transitory property. From the side pocket of their bag would emerge the familiar cream streak of earplugs and the slender rectangular form of the mobile phone. That would be it. Their eyes would close and their feet would tap. I always wonder: “Where are they going? How have they got here? What is their life like?” I finally emerged onto the windswept plain of Ryde Pier. “I must get I haircut,” I thought, trying not to look like mad John of the city of madness. Now it was time for more old friend therapy. With Peter, there is never any tentative period of just getting used to each other again. He just continues the insults from where he left off five years ago. So far, so good. I sat with his gorgeous family and we chatted about times gone and times to come. Then my chair stopped working. I’d named my wonderful powerful super-folding friend Angel. But then my angel let me down. She became sick. It was hello to another night of worry. We tried. I was on the phone to the company. We let Pete’s father-in-law look at it. He’s a qualified electrician with a reputation as a mister fixit. Nothing was working. I even received a call from YuanLang who helped make the chair, all the way from China. That was a good gesture. He tried his best before I thanked him and asked him what the weather was like. I always do that. He said there was a rainstorm. I was currently having a brainstorm. So I had to go round Waitrose in one of those little wheelchair and cart convoys. The shopping was a great success; as was the beef rendang we put together with the help of Pete and his lovely younger daughter Ffion. As for the broken chair, the only answer was to return by car today. The ferry was good. They had a wheelchair all waiting for me. After speeding through grey rainswept roads , we finally arrived. Poor bloke had to drive all the way back. Back in the comfort of my own home, “Shaun the helpful” promised he’d be calling tomorrow to sort out the problem. So much for my great plan. The travelling chair and the domestic chair; yes the domestic chair came on Thursday. I spent the day unpacking the thing and putting it together until I found that a bracket was missing. “We’ll replace it in seven to ten days,” said the girl on the phone. Here I sit looking at two fallen angels. But they will be fixed and I will have my freedom. Thank-you for reading.