Threading a needle.
I must have been about nine or ten. Determined to sew something up, I set about getting that tiny thread of cotton through the eye. This was microsurgery. it needed a steady hand, sharp eyesight and a master’s degree in logistics. How did I know about cutting the cotton to avoid fraying? The meter began to run low. But what a lesson. I did sew up that little silk bag.
There followed a successful career of altering trousers and shirts. It gave me a sort of boho improvised shabby chic look; in my own mind. That was a self-created problem. In a simpler time when I’d be happy to wiggle a stick in a puddle and throw marshmallows at passing cyclists, threading a needle was the ultimate achievement.
It’s different now.
As time progresses, things grow minds of their own. Anything when a strap bonds with fellow straps and the arms of chairs. Simple tasks like placing and removing objects become a step towards the scattering of little bits over inaccessible floor areas. Please, feel my pain. The other day, I was discussing the worst ever noise. Many examples entered the conversation:
Nails on a chalkboard.
You’ll never walk alone.
Toddler supermarket rage.
Power tools. You are 7th in the queue (cue phone music).
Phones on trains. I could go on.
My most hated sound is a small delicate staccato ping. It can be accompanied by a flurry of identical sounds, like cute little raindrops pattering on a conservatory roof. This is the sound that ceramic baking beans make when falling on the kitchen floor.
I take it very personally. I love my beans. I count them every night. I have 109. It’s taken a while to get over the lost bean; it was called Haz.
There is always the familiar drag when you pick up something on the back wheel of the chair. It needs a merry dance to shake the little bugger off before realising that due to one’s cool moves, the grabber is also on the floor.
Ahhhh! The petite hapless crunch of reading glasses being flattened on the carpet. The squelch of the floored cherry tomato. The music of breaking plastic.
Hermes deliveries; they play ring and run. I’ve informed them many times of my situation. I’ve heard of many considerate delivery drivers but this one is an ignorant dick. Read the delivery notes, bellend.
Here is an arm of my wheelchair.
It’s the left arm, the side most used to load from. This could be a major obstacle for putting a coat on. Just imagine how that tapered end loves catching all manner of straps, sleeves and handles. It’s a guilty arm.
As most things I pick up have a cable attached, it creates the clinging spaghetti wrapping itself like a scared child. Then think of unravelling wires and picking things up without other naughty little lumps falling to the floor.
“Thud!” Such a simple yet emotive sound. I now have grabbers in every room. When I drop a grabber, I have to get another one to pick it up and then remember to put it back.
Let’s talk about other kitchen matters.
Things will always fall onto the floor. Like straps, kitchen objects will bind creating a chain reaction. Touching one thing creates an avant-garde version of the mousetrap game. You can watch everything interact hoping the final piece is not one of your expensive whisky tumblers being ever-so-gently pushed over the edge.
Warning! Always ensure bottles of cooking oil are sealed. Those shitty litre bottles of sunflower oil have flimsy caps capable of popping open after a trip to the laminate flooring. Fix that in a wheelchair!
Now for something more universal. On Sky and BT sport, commentators will remind you of an upcoming event on channel so-and-so HD.
Excuse me? Ordinary definition? It does exist. I have a fairly big screen. It’s fine. I don’t need to see the detailed globules of an overpaid tattoed Viking-bearded gobbing over the grass.
Do they think I’ll have a sudden seizure thinking I’ll not be able to access Dagenham and Redbridge versus Harrogate on a bleak Friday night in January because I haven’t subscribed to an over-expensive HD channel?
How do they regard their loyal customers?
As a thread goes (writing level 5; make links between introductions and other parts of the text), this is an infinite concept. But I have to finish.
Let’s go to links.
Never click a link to the Liverpool Echo.
The relevant content jumps all over the screen as the promos attempt to invade your head like a spoilt brat, standing in front of the TV to get your attention. I’m not interested in 50 photobombs or bits of human anatomy sticking out of underwear.
If you wish to print out the free Independent crossword be prepared to deal with the dancing content ensuring that a barrage of ads passes before your very eyes. It’s like nipping into Smiths at Sandbach Services to buy a newspaper. You have to navigate through the grotto of pink tacky shite to the papers at the back of the shop.
“You can skip this ad in 5 seconds.”
When 5 seconds are up, the position of the icon shifts. When you scroll up to delete a worthless page, a huge thing pops up demanding you like them. The list is endless. But we have lives.
In the grand scheme of things, I’m lucky to live independently. I’m lucky to have technology and friends and support and a comfortable place to live. But I know I sing as part of a large chorus, targeted by marketeers and the ironies of life.
Thank you for reading.