Post 2: The Elusive Kebab (Part 1)

 

Originally, I named this post ‘Chasing the kebab’, but this brought to mind some form of recreational drug use, rather than the innocent foodstuff that resulted in an accident that required treatment in an Accident and Emergency (A&E) Department.  So, what happened on that fateful day in March 2020?  This post will reveal all.

 In the morning, I went with a female friend to visit her husband in hospital.    The hospital is in a busy city centre, 10 miles from the town in where I live.  My friend H is unfamiliar with the city centre, and the hospital can be difficult to locate, if you’re unfamiliar with the route.   Also, often you can’t find a parking space.  For these reasons, H and I had decided to travel in by bus.  So, I arranged to meet H at the bus station in the town centre. 

 I’ve been a wheelchair user for over 2 years (please don’t call me ‘wheelchair-bound’; you wouldn’t refer to a car user as ‘car-bound’!).  Travelling on a bus in my battery-operated power chair is not normally a problem for me.  Mostly, I am able to steer within confined spaces.  I say mostly because I recently reversed my chair into the wall of my room in the care home and left a big hole there.  The evidence is shown below:

The infamous hole in the wall.  Note the fabric of the board is clearly visible

I’m now far less self-conscious about waiting for the driver to get off the bus to put down the ramp for me.   H and I got on board the bus.  I confidently gained momentum in second gear and in one seamless movement went up the ramp, continued round to the right and stopped just in front of the other passengers.  In order to do this manoeuvre, I needed to go eyeball to eyeball with the occupants of the front seats.  These seats are intended for the infirm and elderly who are unable to make it to the back of the bus.  I would try desperately to avoid eye contact so I couldn’t see the apprehension in their eyes, afraid that I would run over their toes. 

    

Passengers on the front row of the omnibus having spotted Robert moving towards them

In fairness to myself, more often than not, the toes remained intact (which I felt was a more than acceptable outcome).  Occasionally, contact was made.  Whenever this happened, I would say “I’m terribly sorry”, receiving in return a response such as “no harm done”, or, “these things happen”, or “it’s ok, I’ve had someone run over my toes before – I’m used to it”.

 Next, I had to reverse into the space allocated for people with a disabling condition (please avoid the term ‘the disabled’!).  It’s a bit of a faff, but gets easier with practice.  The problem with the reversing manoeuvre is that there is a metal pole to be negotiated.  The pole is not visible to me as I have my back to it.  In my early days I used to reverse straight into the centre of the pole (unintentionally).  I would then need to move forwards towards the front-rowers and their toes so I could make a second attempt. 

Then I started to make progress; I managed to get to the point where I would merely scrape the wheelchair along the side of the pole, thus enabling me to continue the reversing procedure, and bring it to a successful conclusion.  Unfortunately, the interaction of chair on pole resulted in a very loud, unpleasant shrieking noise, like the sound of two armadillos mating.  (I’m unsure if this is a good analogy – I’ve never witnessed armadillos engaged in acts of passion - but you get the picture).  I like animals.  Here’s a pic of me with an armadillo on my lap, if you don’t believe me. 

 

No armadillos were harmed in the making of this blog

We arrived at the hospital on time.  Visiting hours were 1-3 pm.  It was 12.30 p.m.  We had time to kill.  We decided to get a drink from Costa Coffee (free advertising for Costa - good).  I then made a decision that had unforeseen consequences.  If I go on a long journey, I always take a bag with me.  It will contain some or all of the following; waterproof top, sweater, urine bottle, newspaper, water bottle, fruit, shopping, and pepper spray to repel unwanted Aston Villa (AVFC) supporters. (My football allegiance is to Birmingham City Football Club [BCFC].  BCFC and AVFC are bitter rivals).

 

I’ve supported and suffered BCFC ‘since I were a lad’. Recently, the club’s star player, Jude Bellingham, aged 17, was transferred to the German club Borussia Dortmund for a fee in the region of £20,000,000.  Bellingham played only 44 games for BCFC.  Despite this the club decided to ‘retire’ Bellingham’s No. 22 shirt, “in an attempt to inspire the next generation”.  This has left the club open to ridicule as most clubs only ‘retire’ shirts when a player has played for their club most/all of his life, probably making in the region of 700-800 appearances.  One BCFC fan was quoted as saying, with just a hint of sarcasm, “we will aim to get exactly 22 points next season as a tribute to Jude” (most clubs would expect to get at least double that amount of points in a full season).   

 I always carry the bag on the back of my wheelchair, held safely and securely by a carabiner.  (A carabiner is not someone who likes holidaying in the West Indies.  Instead, it is a shackle, consisting of a metal loop with a spring-loaded gate used to quickly and reversibly connect components). 

Carabiner in 'open' mode

On this occasion, I decided to attach the bag to the arm of my wheelchair, with the bag resting on my lap.

The rest of the visit passed off without incident.  H’s husband was feeling much better than the previous day, and well on the road to recovery.  It was not the coronavirus as first suspected.  Visiting time came and went very quickly.

 H and I then made the bus journey back to our home town.  We got off the bus around 3.30 p.m.  We then parted company; H collecting her car from the car park, so she could collect her kids from school.    

I started to wend my way homeward.  As I did so, I realised I was hungry.  I’d had a full breakfast before I came out, but nothing since then.  I had thought about getting a snack from Costa when we had our coffee break but prices were ridiculously expensive (free advertising for Costa – not so good).  In any case, I needed something more substantial than a snack.  Therefore, I decided I wanted to get up close and personal with a kebab and chips (and not just a small portion). 

 Fortunately, the local fish and chip shop was open.  I ordered large mixed kebab, large chips, large naan bread, large salad, and large salt & vinegar.  I decided I would eat my feast back at the care home.  I now had on my lap, not only my bag, but a humungous kebab-shaped food parcel. 

A smaller version of the kebab.  Not to scale.  The actual kebab was 10 times bigger.  Plus, it had chips – probably about 1000 of them).  Plus, it was wrapped – but is shown unwrapped so kebab is visible.  At this point the kebab retains its ‘non-elusive’ status.

I started to make my way home.  I went slowly, as I needed to consider both the shopping bag and the kebab on my lap.  I made my way up the main street and across the market place.  This brought me to the bottom of a steep hill.  I was not worried about the ascent.  I always go up a pavement on the right side of the road, with the kerb on my left and the houses on my right.  I have a tendency to lean to my right following the onset of the cancer, and the subsequent compression surgery.  The camber of the pavement is such that when I go up the pavement in this way there is a downward slope from top right to bottom left.  So, fortunately my leaning to the right is cancelled out by the camber to the left.  

This meant that my trip up the hill was, as usual, smooth and uneventful.  At the top of the hill there is a pedestrian crossing accessible to people using wheelchairs via a dropped kerb.  As usual, I went across the crossing keeping in a straight line, not deviating to left or right.  I went up the dropped kerb on the other side and turned right. 

At this point of the journey I always need total concentration.  The pavement goes from almost level to very steep in less than 2 metres.  Also, the camber of the pavement divides sharply 3 ways; left, right, and straight ahead.  I needed to go straight ahead.  At this point my kebab decided it wanted to become ‘elusive’, and made a break for freedom.  It started to fall off my lap.  I made a desperate grab for it.  I managed to stop it falling on the ground. 

Unfortunately, the successful grab meant I lost control of the hand-operated joystick on my chair, which selects the gears.  Instead of going straight ahead as required, the chair went off to the right close to the kerb which was almost 12cm high.  I took my hand off the control and the chair came immediately to a stop. 

The offending article. 

Specialist joysticks, a.k.a. ‘assistive technology pointing devices’, are used by people with fairly severe physical disabilities. According to the magazine Armadillo Monthly they are used on electric powered wheelchairs for control since ’they are simple and effective to use as a control method’.  Ahem.  Yes, well …. maybe …..

Unfortunately, by now the chair was on the edge of the kerb, wobbling precariously, like the mini (the small car, not the short skirt) on the fulcrum of the mountain in the final frame of The Italian Job (watch the original film from 1969, not the 2003 remake). 

 I tried desperately to get the wheels of the chair back on the pavement.  However, the chair refused to go to the left – it even moved slightly to the right.  So, I kept very, very, very still, hoping that someone would rescue me …..

 

The next time – in Part 2 - the kebab continues to be elusive … but then turns up in an unexpected place …..