A wordy birthday greeting

Today it is my dear Jane Austen's 240th birthday. (She happens to share it with one of my closest friends from first year at uni, Diviya, who then transferred to Nottingham - we've spent the last five years communicating via text and social media, trying to match schedules and meet up in person. Happy birthday, wifey! I miss you.) What these two wonderful women share is more than a birthday, though, because they've both inspired me to do things I never would've thought possible otherwise. 

Diviya and I met as cautious chorus members for Opera Warwick's January 2011 (English) production of Mozart's The Marriage of Figaro. She brought me out of my shell and taught me that my wheels had just as much of a place on the Arts Centre stage as her (appropriate to the style of the show) garishly coloured skirt and high heels. In fact, I believe our multicultural and multi-ability chorus grouping led directly to my current PhD study, because Diviya and my other friends instilled in me further the joy and importance of diverse casting. She also gave me the confidence to put myself forward as a candidate for the exec committee the following year, as Productions Manager - a role I find myself lucky to be reprising now that I'm back at Warwick. We're putting on Figaro again - coincidence? I think not! Trips to the Dirty Duck after rehearsals gave me some of my favourite memories of Freshers and are never to be forgotten, either, since they forged friendships which I hope will last a lifetime.

Similarly, thanks to Austen, I discovered that literature and the arts are the ultimate tools for accessibility - if they are taught in an engaging manner. Through her, I learnt that I too could jump over stiles (first in my dreams, and then in reality, with help from my determined mother) and share in the satisfaction of muddy jeans, if not quite petticoats...! I also found that, if you search hard enough, the touch of disability can be discerned in almost any individual's experience - Miss Austen's being a case in point. I've probably mentioned this before, if not here then on another of my blogs, but it is believed that she and her brother George communicated with some form of sign language, he having a hearing impairment and apparent learning difficulties. Yay canonical representation (albeit covert)! Thanks for furthering our cause, Jane, and continuing a tradition started by Homer and Milton but which hardly anyone mentions!

So, yes, that's my wordy birthday greeting for two of my favourites. It couldn't be more perfect that you share a day. I love you both and am so grateful for the impact that you have had on my life - in very different but also strikingly similar ways.

Thank you!

Thoughts on Jane Eyre at the National in collaboration with Bristol Old Vic

(In memory of Gemma Watson, 26th Sept 1990 - 9th December 2001)

Ever since I first read (and loved) Charlotte Brontë's Jane Eyre, aged ten, I've been aware that it's a highly awkward book - or, as we say on tumblr, 'a problematic fave'. The positioning of Bertha Mason as the mentally unstable, hypersexualised racial 'Other' disturbed me even then, although I didn't quite have those words to describe my feelings. So much so, in fact, that, when I finally got to study it at school in Year Eight, my English teacher gave me her copy of Jean Rhys' Wide Sargasso Sea to read alongside the original novel, since it went some way to addressing these issues. Once I got to uni, I discovered the critical work (in every sense) of Gayatri Spivak, and was delighted. Through her writing, and that of others, I found the vocabulary for which I had so longed - in terms of disability as well as race, because David Mitchell and Sharon Snyder's concept of 'narrative prosthesis' so perfectly encapsulated the function of Rochester's blindness and eventual cure. It exists for no other purpose than to make a moral point, and to provide the catalyst for Jane's final transformation into an independent adult, since it is through his dependence on her (coupled with sudden and convenient financial good fortune) that she is able to achieve as close to liberty as was possible for a woman of her station at the time.

Nevertheless, having established all my difficulties with the text, I must now return to the bracketed part of my first sentence - because I did, and do, love it, though not for the reasons you might think. I'd take Fitzwilliam Darcy or Edmund Bertram (I mean, let's face it, I'm really such a Francis Price!) over Edward Rochester any day. No - I love Jane Eyre because in it (and her) my ten-year-old heart found what I still think is the most accurate depiction of how it feels to be a young girl desperate with grief over the loss of the dearest of friends. It therefore seems doubly apt that I'm writing this 'review-of-sorts' today, as it is the fourteenth anniversary of when the first of my own darling girls died, and the restaging at the National Theatre of the Bristol Old Vic company's devised production (which I watched as an NT Live screening last night) seemed to understand the ramifications that the death of Helen Burns had on Jane's development far more than any other adaptation I have witnessed.

Actually, I'd say that's true of most aspects of the plot - including the issues of race and disability mentioned earlier. Perhaps this was just a bonus of it being theatre, not film, and the extra minutes this allows for events to unfold. I think, however, that it was more due to the company's conscious decision to divest themselves (though not entirely, because the clothes were still period appropriate) of the conventions of costume drama and director Sally Cookson's desire that nothing be subsumed into the love story.

The subtitle of the novel, after all, is 'An Autobiography', and the story is that of an orphaned girl growing up in Yorkshire. The show's Jane, played with a determinedly regional accent, couldn't have been prouder of that heritage. (Interestingly, the one significant part of the book that the company chose to omit was her acquisition of wealth - a subtle suggestion that she and Rochester are essential equals, money or no money?) This, allied to the constantly resurfacing refrains of folk songs, grounded her in a sense of community and shared experience that no amount of ostracism and cruelty was able to destroy - which brings me to another important facet of the production.

The majority of the folk songs began as solos for the character of Bertha, before being taken up and harmonised by the rest of the company. Such a decision meant that she was extremely present from the very start of the piece, instead of just appearing at Thornfield, and was an important reflection of the novel's narrative as told by an older Jane who is reminiscing. It also set up a deliberately prominent parallel between Jane and Bertha, both the characters and their actors, because they were only ever themselves. All other members of the multicultural company (even the actor eventually playing Rochester) undertook multiple roles at various points, often as aspects of Jane's psyche. This made one wonder who precisely was the person with mental health issues, and provided a stark commentary on the ravaging potential of grief, which was underscored by a haunting folk-style rendition of the pop anthem 'Crazy' against the backdrop of the Thornfield fire - after which a drenched and lost Jane called out for her beloved friend Helen across the moors.

It was theatrical adaptation exactly as it should be - irreverent, yet infinitely attentive to, and enthralled by, its source material. It was also precisely what I needed to prepare me for the feelings I have felt today - grief in all its myriad manifestations and the mixed up muddle of joy and sadness. So thanks, NT and Bristol Old Vic. Thanks, Brontë. Thanks, Jane and Helen, and thanks Gemma - you were there with me last night, as you are always. Thank you for shaping who I am.

A return for #IDoPWD

Hello!

I have a flat, a suitable bed (more on that another time), and reliable internet, which means I'm back in the blogosphere. At last - and I could not have found a happier or more significant day to return, because December 3rd is the UN's International Day of People [or Persons, depending on which version you read] with Disabilities. It also marks the fact that we are pretty much halfway through UK Disability History Month, or UKDHM, which proceeds from 22nd November-22nd December, and has as its theme for this year 'Portrayals of Disability in Mainstream Media'. All very relevant to my thesis, my life, and, consequently, this blog. After all, I am a Person with a Disability (albeit one who is unsure about excessive use of capitalisation), writing my PhD on disability, and using this corner of the internet to document the intersection of these two things.

So I think today provides me with the perfect opportunity to update you, my loyal readers who are still here after nearly a month of silence, on what I've been doing in that time. It also allows me to express my gratitude for my wheels - because, without them, I really don't think I'd have my words. Sure, it's difficult (especially when it comes to access), but my experience has shaped who I am - much like it has Noujain Mustaffa, the teenager with cerebral palsy who made the journey from Syria with her wheelchair. If she can cross continents, I can definitely cross campuses. (I tried to find the most impartial report of her story to share here. Quite a number of articles deal with it in the highly-emotive language that many in the disability community, myself included, find simplistic and offensive - but that is a topic for another post.)

For now, I'll just leave Noujain's journey there as a reminder of what is possible - but, also, of how much still needs to change in our world when it comes to disability. (Change which, as a brief aside in relation to recent parliamentary decisions, is not to be achieved by using money and resources which could rebuild our infrastructure to systematically destroy that of another country - an act with the potential to create many more disabilities on an international scale through both physical and psychological injury of civilians.)

This is why I have undertaken my PhD - and it brings me back to what I have been doing over the last month. The aim of the day conference which launched UKDHM for 2015 was to investigate the sociocultural representations of disability of the past and present and, in so doing, to attempt to map a way forward and to inspire further campaigns. This is the power of the arts, but it is also the power of social media, and the two came together nicely in the fact that the event was live streamed to engage a wider audience. They also met helpfully in a presentation I was lucky enough to attend, given by the actress, disability activist and face equality campaigner Victoria Wright, who has a condition called cherubism, and who is working to emphasise the importance of an online (web-wide) community for those impacted by, and interested in, disability - especially parents and young people. She has her own blog, which I'll add a link to very soon.

She has inspired me to be more active on mine, both personally and academically, which provides me with a neat segue into my final point. Only last night, I went to a presentation given by Dr Jack Newsinger on disability arts and austerity policy. What became very clear to me is that if we, the international people with disabilities who are today being lauded by the United Nations, desire a full and worthy role (or roll teehee) in the development of our countries and our world, we have to take it - whether those who 'run' those countries and the world want us to or not.

And, with a little help from our friends (since we are all only temporarily able-bodied and a more accessible world has benefits for everyone), we might just do it - I know that's my plan.

Happy IDOPWD!

Preliminary ponderings on properly PhDing

Hello again! At last, after some weeks' absence, I've finally found the time and head space to update this blog. (Huzzah!) Since this also appears to be my twenty-fifth post already, it feels rather apt that it be about how it feels to have properly got going with my PhD.

I say 'properly got going' when I'm actually still spending the majority of my time floundering around in a sea of theory and primary sources, and wondering when someone is going to have the sense to call me out on my inadequacy, but this week is the first of the four so far in which I've been able to make out some sort of direction. This is partly because I've had hugs and catch ups with friends who are in the final stages of their theses, and they've told me that my feelings are universal, however individual they may seem. It's also because this week was Warwick Students' Union's Disability Awareness Week, and I was very kindly asked by the Disabled Students' Officer (and my friend), Jenny, to give a presentation on the early stages of my research. It was super helpful to get feedback on my ideas from some of my peers in a fairly informal setting, so thanks, Jenny!

I've also booked onto my first conference (as an attendee, not a presenter or panel member just yet!) as part of UK Disability History Month 2015, which I'm very excited about, understandably. It's at the British Film Institute on 19th November, so more about that closer to the time! I should probably tell you dear readers more about my thesis, too, but I want to solidify a few aspects first. I'm submitting a single-page synopsis for my next supervision, as an exercise in focus, so maybe I'll post some of that here, if it won't then mean I'll be self-plagiarising. Let me know if you'd be interested!

Much love 'til next time

Jx

First thoughts on Warwick (for the second time around)

Today's post is brought to you (sans sponsorship, of course!) courtesy of the cosiness of what was always one of my favourite Student Union outlets - our very own vintage tea shop, Curiositea. So I suppose I should start here. It's as gorgeous as I remember, with a few additions that have only made it more welcoming, like the stickering of a table at the front for priority access by people with disabilities (photographic evidence below). Huge thanks to Warwick Enable (the disability society, which had only just started when I left) and the SU for this subtle but significant change - no more awkward bumping into tables for me! As I sit here on a Tuesday afternoon, staring out at the rain and sipping on a mint hot chocolate (some things never change!), I know I'll be whiling away just as many hours in this manner over the course of my PhD as I did as an undergraduate. All that's missing are the friends I used to share it with - especially my intellectual twin and fellow JP, Jade Passfield - but lots of you are back, so let's chill here soon, please?

The theme of newfound (and new-created) accessibility pretty much sums up my experience of returning so far. The central area of campus has been hugely revamped and, whilst that is rather confusing because I thought I knew my way around (as my friend Lily put on Facebook last night, where do you get a bus!?), it is mostly proving to be a good thing. The dropped curbs can legitmately be called dropped curbs (a rarity in this largely non-wheely world!), it's far less crowded on pavements than it used to be, and there's a proper double and automatic door on the grocery shop, probably because it's no longer Costcutter and has recently been taken under SU ownership. So, aside from the fact that I nearly couldn't collect my student card last week because the lift up to the Panorama Room was broken and I had to send my dear Mama to beg, I'm pretty impressed.

And that's before I've even had departmental inductions. Eep!

Which reminds me, I'm now officially a doctoral student, though how exactly that happened I'm not sure. I still feel like a baby fresher...but this year's actual baby freshers were born in 1997. WHAT!?

On that somewhat sobering thought, I'll sign off - because, however old I feel, it's really good to be back. I've missed you, Universitas Warwicensis. Here's to the next three or so years, eh?

Hello and apologies for the hiatus

Having not posted for a (rather long) while, today I want to say two things - I'm still here, and I'm very sorry for having been away. It's not that there haven't been things I've wanted to write about - far from it, and the post about camp will surface soon! - but that, through a mixture of circumstances, I've had to limit my time on web-based social media over the last month and a bit.

This is partly due to mere practicalities. For instance, we've made frequent trips up to Warwick in preparation for the new term, which involves staying somewhere that doesn't currently have any kind of internet access, let alone wifi, and that's meant I've missed the opportunity to send lots of people messages on their actual birthdays (sorry!) or even missed messages I've been sent completely. I'm working on the extensive backlog I've managed to accrue.

It's also because I don't think I quite realised how much I've been on the go for the past two (or more) years until I got a proper break. So, like the dreadfully slow pages of Internet Explorer that we all loved to hate in days of yore, I just needed to take some time to refresh.

That isn't meant to be an excuse or a sob story. Not at all - in fact, in many ways, this summer has been the easiest and most comfortable in about a decade. As I'll write about more explicitly and emphatically in my upcoming (and long time coming!) post on camp, I almost feel as though my body is going backwards in a very positive way, and rediscovering some of the freedom and ability it had this time ten years ago. So plans I had for socialising and reconnecting have most definitely not been scuppered by pain this time around - or at least not nearly as much as they used to be - and I have been able to catch up with a considerable number of very lovely people. Just not quite as many as I would've liked!

I just needed to give myself some space and time to take stock - and I'm very, very, very sorry that, in some respects, it has made me a rather neglectful friend over the summer. I'm happy that that seems likely to change from here on in.

As this date marks the start of my first Warwick adventure (five years ago!) and because tomorrow marks the official start of my new one, I thought it was serendipitous to rejoin the world of blogging today, buoyed by a combination of excitement and disbelief. I'll endeavour to keep it up from now on, along with being a more engaged friend and person in general.

I'll let you know how that goes.

Much love to friends old and new. Sincere thanks for being in my life.

Jx

Laughter for Levi

You will notice this post isn't about this year's camp yet (that is still coming!) though it's related. In 2014 Pathfinders fell in this week, so it is in remembrance of the night we spent at Woodlarks, waiting for updates on our dear friend Levi and then holding each other through the tears that came with the news of her passing. Whilst I am overwhelmed with disbelief that it was a year ago today already, as we were at her absence last week, however, I have attempted to make this day as full of laughter as I possibly could - because that's what she would want. She'd probably just laugh watching me crying, actually, and then shout and tell me off until I stopped. 

Laughter was definitely much more her style, so we tried that at camp, too. Laughter in the loos, in the pool, in the tent, in the woods. Laughter when mattresses squeaked and it sounded like something else, laughter when it was something else. Laughter at the dinner table, around the campfire, and at the sinks when we were supposedly washing up but in reality were having a water fight. Laughter as we did circus skills and the spinning plate landed on my head - multiple times. Even laughter as we went to find a suitable spot for the gorgeous memorial bear our friend Emma had organised (I'll try and find a photo somewhere soon) because Nori very appropriately blasted out some JLS on her phone. Then we laughed because we'd started crying, and we knew what she'd think of that - as I am doing now, writing this.

So, lovely Levi:

I hope you don't mind those mingled tears, gorgeous girl, since they were the same as those we both cried as I walked to you for a hug -  overwhelming joy tinged with the subtlest of sadnesses. I hope you felt you were with us, and I hope you know that you always will be, in the stone teddy that now bears your name (forgive me the pun, dear, but I thought you might like it) and in our hearts. I hope you know we miss you, a year on, and I hope we did you proud.

I'll light a candle tonight. Love you always - thank you for the laughter and memories xxxx

Friends are nothing 'til they've grinned together...

Doggy mummy worries

A proper post is coming soon, I promise, and hopefully the one about camp. Today, though, I have a brief one about hospital visits and anaesthetic...not for me, but for my (littlest) dog. Georgi hurt her paw whilst we were away, so we took her into the vet this afternoon, and it turned out to be an abscess. In order for them to drain it they had to put her under general anaesthetic. She's fine now, if feeling a tad sorry for herself, as you'll see from the photo below. I, however, have gained an understanding of my Mama's feelings every time she's had to watch me go under and then wait for me to come around. So thanks, Mama, for looking after me (and my dogs) when I need you most - I appreciate it, and you, so much.

Returning home

A short (and sleepy) post to mark my return from camp. Sleepy because it's only ten to seven as I start to write this and I could quite happily go to bed right now! Short because I probably will do just that very soon and I want to save the majority of my thoughts until I can do them justice. However, I also want briefly to acknowledge what is, for me, one of the most striking aspects of camp.

The significance of the title I've chosen is twofold - for, whilst it fits with the fact that I'm now back home in London, it would be equally apposite as a description for the beginning of my holiday. Going  to camp each year is synonymous with going home - going home to my favourite place in the UK, and perhaps even in the world. Returning to the fold of my Woodlarks (and, more specifically now, Pathfinders) family - a constant yet ever-changing and -growing circle of people and love. So, although I'll be extremely happy to snuggle up in my nice, warm (indoor!) bed tonight at a reasonable hour, I'll also be missing the late night (early morning!?) chats with fabulous friends - some of whom I've known for over a decade and others I only met this week but will hang on to for life.

More detailed and less philosophical words soon but I'm already counting the months, weeks and days until we can be there again!

For Eva (and eva and eva and eva)

Dearest Eva Weva Diva

(I hope you enjoy my attempt at a 'street talk/text talk' pun on your name in the title of this post - you always teased me about my refusal to shorten words when sending you messages. I've still got your number in my phone and it will never leave.)

As I typed that bracketed bit, what struck me is it being in past tense. Obviously it would be - two years ago today you closed your eyes - but I guess I still think of you as very firmly in the present and it's so odd to be reminded that you're not. Except, as I wrote last year, of course you are - in all the leopard print I noticed when I went to Camden the other day, in every Rhianna song I catch on the radio, and in every time I laugh at something only you would find funny too.

I'll be at camp when this goes up, as I was when you passed away, and though I won't have anyone with whom to share my thoughts of you I can assure you that they will be there. Just like our secret, signed, conversations I'll stare up to the starry sky and smile - a moment of silent thanks for having known and loved you, and for having been known and loved by you in return. We have a song we sing around the campfire called 'Friends are Nothing', the final verse of which is as follows,

Friends are nothing

'til they've parted together

with a tear in their eye,

as they wave their friends goodbye,

and they swear to meet again someday...

Now, I'm not sure that we'll meet again in the literal sense, as that isn't really what I believe. The almost oxymoron of 'parted together' is something I can hang on to, though, because I do feel as though we are apart and yet always together. So thanks. I feel you here even as I miss you. I hope you feel me somehow - perhaps our atoms are mingling.

Love you foreva and eva, darling Eva,

Jessi xxx

#Wheelchairperks no. 2

(A less sarcastic one, this time, I promise - and it's on a Monday to balance out the rest of the week as there'll be a post on Wednesday.)

When you realise that, in three (or four) years, you'll have the same title as the majority of the medical professionals involved in your life - and that thought fills you with glee and confidence. Bring on the doctorate!

(Due to this post falling on this Monday, I must add a very happy birthday to my aunt Lucy! Much love to you in SA)

Form an orderly queue

Just a quick note today to say that, as I'm off to camp, this will be the last post that I'll put up on social media for a week (until Saturday 22nd). I'm not one overly to push people to read these ramblings of mine (except for a status or a tweet) because that isn't the point of writing them, necessarily. 

That said, if you would like to read the duo of posts I've scheduled for this week, then you are very welcome to subscribe using the little box to the left of this post - simply enter your email address and you'll get them delivered straight to your inbox! Otherwise you can just keep tabs on www.wordyandwheely.blogspot.co.uk.

Either way, thanks for reading, I hope they will interest you whilst I'm under canvas!

Much love!

Briefly back to the 'Bubble'

Yesterday was bizarre. I made a very fleeting trip up to Warwick to be shown around several (I thought) possible campus rooms for me to live in from October - hence my not mentioning that I'd be there on any form of social media, because I wasn't sure how much time I'd have free. (Thanks to Roxanne for the impromptu hugs in the foyer of University House, and apologies for not letting people know.) There ended up being only one potential room, which I unfortunately won't be taking, because I could barely fit down the corridor, let alone into the room itself. So I'm going to be looking in Leamington and hoping that it, as a Spa town, has something to offer this eighteenth century geek - preferably sans stairs! (Thanks to Lauren for the short visit, puppy cuddles and bus route tips.)

But the room isn't the point of this post. I didn't think at all about what it would be like to be back - especially in the middle of the summer break - and it was really weird! Buildings and pavements were at once well-known and completely alien, and it felt both like coming home and going as far away from it as I'd ever been. Almost like being a fresher again, which I guess is what I will be as I start my PhD, but that sense of anticipation was oddly mingled with nostalgia. 

The place is filled with memories, and it took me from my teens into my twenties, but I'm not that naive little girl now - in part because of how it (and the friends I made there) helped me grow. It was as though I'd stepped ('wheeled'? Nah, 'stepped', because I always walk in my dreams and I was in a dreamlike state) into a sliver of my past but also been granted a fraction of my future. I'm excited to find out what these old haunts have in store for this new me!

#Wheelchairperks no. 1

An extra post today, to bring you the first in the series of #wheelchairperks, companions to #wheelchairproblems. Hope you enjoy this tidbit from an outing earlier:

When you go to Camden market to get stuff for a costume for camp, and most of the storeholders apparently feel so sorry for you/superstitious of you that they knock everything down to less than half price, but really it's you who should feel sorry for them because their pity has only cost them money. Teehee.

(Thank you to the woman who didn't do this and was genuinely helpful in finding what I needed. I'll be coming back. I mean, I'm definitely not gonna complain about getting cheaper clothes, but, well, there are ways of being nice without being condescending - and today isn't the first time this has happened.)

Something to do

So...after finally expressing my genuine angst about a lack of structure to my time, days and life, I might just have found something to assuage it in the intervening period between coming home from camp and heading back up to Warwick.

Yesterday, mum and I met up with some of her old South African friends, who are over from their current home in Germany for a while. We went to another friend's concert (Beethoven and Mozart quintets, delicious!) and then took them to our local slice of eighteenth-century 'country' splendour - Kenwood House, once home to Lord Mansfield and his family, and set on a hill literally up the road from us in Hampstead. I love it - the house played a huge role in my childhood, thanks to primary school trips and summer holidays filled with concerts in the glorious grounds, even before I became an enthusiast of the era. During one such trip, our class was allowed to lie on the floor of the library and stare up at the ceiling - joy!

I hadn't been since they completed the renovation, though, so I was delighted to discover not only that they have restored all the lower rooms to their original Georgian glory (as designed by the celebrated Robert Adam) but that there is now a (surreptitiously installed) lift, which allows me to get upstairs! It also means I can at last properly contemplate the possibility of volunteering there, something I've considered for a while, and actually put my most recent degree to use. They're always on the hunt for new guides, and it would be absolute bliss to prattle on about my passion all day in a place so intimately connected with it (and with Dido Belle, one of the era's most fascinating characters) so I'm going to apply and offer my services for any of the next few holiday periods.

Georgian Christmas, anyone?

Sunday sunshine and solemnity

I've been writing poetry today - not for this blog, nor for publication anywhere else (yet!). The only reason I mention it is that I'm not sure where the pieces I've written might fit, because they're very haphazard in their adherence to form or structure or narrative, and that's rather how I feel in myself at the moment. Sitting in the glorious sunshine on the Heath this afternoon, I realised that this summer is pretty much the first time in about five years that I've not had something around which to organise my days, whether that be essay and dissertation writing, classes, workshops and rehearsals to attend, reading for the next phase to study to do - or a broken wheelchair. That's not to say I'm completely idle - I've got plays to watch and books and articles to read in preparation for my PhD (and, as I've documented here, I've even written bits already!) - but there's no pressure. 

It's novel, and lovely (of course), but I must confess I don't quite know what to do. I'm so used to having plans and deadlines that I feel pretty guilty just 'being'. Obviously part of me is aware that that is utterly ridiculous - my mind, but especially my body, was so burnt out that this is exactly what I need. I think, though, that the guilt might actually be more like anxiety - because my busyness up to now has been a way to stop myself from thinking. I don't mean thinking in the academic or intellectual sense (I'll never want to stop doing that) but in the manner of dealing with certain aspects of my physical and mental health, both related and unrelated to my disability. Throwing myself into work at full pelt was, and is, an attempt to quiet some of the chatter and dissonance on my personal playlist (to use a contemporary metaphor) or the whining of my self-esteem's cassette tape as it gets stuck because I don't have a pencil on hand to rewind it (to use a metaphor from my childhood that I much prefer). 

The point of this ramble is that my absence from this blog last week was not so much due to tiredness as to me forcing myself just to stop and to take stock. In all my excitement about my new chair and the freedom it's offered me, I don't think I fully appreciated the impact that the last little while (and the fifteen months leading up to 1st July in particular) has had on my stamina and my ability to function fully (whatever that means). 

So, I stopped.

That's why, even though my chair is sorted, I've not organised all the social things I have been so waiting for. 

Sorry - but I think I'm nearly out of hibernation, so let's make plans. I've missed everyone.

#Wheelchairproblems no. 2

When you're on Hampstead Heath with your dogs, just minding your own business, and four white and fluffy miniature poodles (who have clearly never encountered a powered chair before) think it is both their right and duty to surround you and bark in an attempt to prevent you from moving...which you then can't do anyway because you're laughing so much.

(I have no photo or video evidence for this, sadly, but it was hilarious!)

A rush of revivals

At last some thoughts on theatre - not quite when I hoped and, in fact, a full week since I last posted. However, having revived sufficiently after several quiet days and some good nights' sleep, it seems only fitting finally to write about the shows I saw last week, since they were/are revivals themselves. The first, which I watched on Saturday 25th, is Poet Laureate Carol Ann Duffy's adaptation of the anonymous mediaeval morality play The Summoning of Everyman, in this incarnation simply titled Everyman. The second, which I saw on Tuesday 28th, is a period dress production of George Farquhar's early-eighteenth-century comedy The Beaux' Stratagem. These are two plays that have not been overly present in the public consciousness, much those who study them (like me!) might wish they were and despite the fact that previous casts have included the early brilliance of greats such as Maggie Smith (now Dame), so I was excited to find out how they'd been reimagined for a new generation of audiences. They're also at opposite ends of the spectrum of possibilities when it comes to revival, and they're in repertory in the same space, which (in my head, at least) makes them ripe for comparison.

I should start off by saying that I absolutely loved both - and by assuring you that this is not just an unconsidered blanket statement. I don't love everything I watch, and I'm very ready to be critical (in the academic sense of the word) but I have very eclectic (and sometimes apparently incompatible) tastes in theatre. These two pieces were hugely different which, to my mind, leaves me ample room to enjoy both - and to illustrate that I am perhaps a bundle of contradictions, equally enamoured with the 'old-fashioned' aesthetic of a play performed 'as its writer wrote it' (if that is ever truly plausible) as with a production which might be termed 'modern', 'postmodern' or even 'post-postmodern'.

Forgive me if that seems pretentious (particularly that last bit with all the inverted commas and jargon) but it brings me to the essence of my joint review. The principal dramatic and critical concern when it comes to revivals is (yet another buzzword for you) 'relevance'. Will a 'Restoration' comedy about an impecunious aristocratic dandy hunting for a convenient fortune (and wife) meet well with current sensibilities? How does one approach presenting a mediaeval man's struggle with God and Death (both capitalised to emphasise their personification) as important in today's largely secular society? These productions, in my opinion, provide ample answers to such questions, as is underscored by the repeated presence of phrases like 'fresh' and 'thought provoking' in reviews for them both. As is in keeping with their seemingly disparate styles, of course, they do so in vastly different ways - a few of which I'll explore below:

Where The Beaux' Stratagem exhibits its theatricality through casual asides to the audience, slapstick humour involving obvious disguises, and lively songs and dances, Everyman does the same through its inclusion of video montages, wind machines (!) physical theatre and a combination of mediaeval-inspired music on period instruments and more modern dance tunes like Donna Summer's 1977 disco hit 'I Feel Love'. Whilst these strategies may appear to be worlds apart, though, they actually have  a similar goal, namely the creation of spectacle by way of the technology available during the eras they are attempting to capture - in these cases, the first decade of the eighteenth century and the second of the twenty-first, respectively.

Moreover, and aptly for productions that are sharing a stage for their runs, they achieve this spectacle in much the same manner - through their use of space. In Everyman, for instance, God (a woman, brilliantly played by Kate Duchenne!) opens the play by mopping the entire stage, as a trigger for her monologue about the divine duties of cleaning up after humans. Then, when Chiwetel Ejiofor enters as the titular character, he does so on wires from the flies, descending as if into a deep pit - an actual hole in the stage. Similarly, in The Beaux' Stratagem, the sense of constant change and deception (with nobody really sure who or where they are in life at any given point) is conveyed and maintained by the fact that much of the action takes place on the central staircase and its landings. Even the scene changes keep pace with this flurry of movement, in fact, because the difference between the coaching inn (where the titular duo, Aimwell and Archer, leave their horses 'ready saddled') and the big house (where they practise their guises on Dorinda and Mrs Sullen) is denoted only by the presence or absence of a seemingly flimsy wall.


The aura of simultaneous distance and immediacy evoked by this wall brings me to the linguistic elements of the two productions - because, as is only right in a properly put-together revival, one often finds oneself listening to the words of the characters and wondering exactly which era one is in. You might suppose that this would occur less frequently in Everyman, since it is an avowedly modern adaptation of the original text, and on a certain level this is true. The principal concern of Duffy's (brilliant) script, and consequently the 'reckoning' that drives the play, is the environmental impact of humanity. This is seemingly a striking addition to the ethical and moral dilemmas of the mediaeval protagonist (antagonist?) and its topicality is slyly conveyed through moments such as when God laments that the Earth has been 'fractured - fracked'. Nevertheless, even amidst all the plastic bags (and the wind machine that blasted them into the audience), I couldn't help but think of A Midsummer Night's Dream and its 'the seasons alter' speech. Of course, the monologue is there to emphasise the magical mechanics of the play, but its vocabulary is so specific and evocative that one wonders about the relationship of Shakespeare and his predecessors with the planet. (There are probably already essays upon essays upon articles on this subject already. I'm going to do some research. I'm a geek. I know.)

Potentially tenuous intertextual links in Everyman aside, all of The Beaux' Stratagem's fidelity to the bosoms and bustles of its original context served, in my mind,  only to heighten its 'modern' (or, more accurately, subversive) nature. I say subversive because that's what it is, and was, however subtly. The combination of Mrs Sullen's lines, for instance 'Agh! Matrimony!'*, and the play's concluding suggestion that she might remarry following a divorce were both genuinely novel in the period. (As they still are today, indeed, to many people in many societies.) For me, though, the crucial connection between our time and Farquhar's arose in (the suitably nebulous space of) the epilogue, and through a single word - 'consent'. Its presence in the script obviously alludes to the mutual agreement on separation made by spouses but, when uttered by a (modern) actress in a (modern) auditorium it necessarily carries connotations of other (legal and non-legal) agreements that are vitally important in a society still imbued with, and entrenched in, rape culture.

So...those are my musings on two raucous and refreshing revivals, exceedingly different and yet somehow decidedly similar. Hopefully they'll both make us think - and I hope my own (long-overdue) thoughts have not bored you, at least.

*I haven't got my copy of the script in front of me, so that quotation is probably incorrectly transcribed.

Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow

Tonight's post is an apology (another one) framed, at least, by a theatrical title - specifically a quotation from what we thespian types superstitiously refer to as 'The Scottish Play'. Technically, the precaution is only necessary in an actual theatre building, but I never like to take chances.

Anyway, pretentious preamble over, the relevance of the quotation is that I'm going to have to postpone my promised post to tomorrow - again. The reason for that is pretty simple and boring. It's been another long and busy day, with an appointment followed by retraining some dear friends and helpers, and I'm tired. Since the arrival of my new chair, in my euphoria at the freedom it has restored, I've been packing as much as possible into my days - and I don't think I adequately prepared myself for the ordinary, non-disability-specific, exhaustion which would ensue. That's not to say I dislike it. On the contrary - it's such a novelty to be using my energy for interesting and enjoyable things, rather than just in an effort to stay upright, and it's one for which I shall be forever grateful. 

Whilst it has given me many things to write about, it has ironically also had the effect of stopping me from doing so, because my previous practice of blogging predominantly in the evening is no longer very viable. Basically, by the time I get there (here), I'm shattered. Consequently, if I want to write longer posts, it'll have to be done earlier, and that entails waiting for days on which I actually have free mornings. Like tomorrow. Once I get into the swing of queuing posts, I'm sure it'll be a lot easier to keep to my schedule, but until then all I have to offer you is yet another picture (in prose) of my hands upheld. Sorry - I hope that's okay.

A very bookish board game

Hello, and welcome to an extra Wednesday dose of Wordy and Wheely, as promised. Well, not quite as promised, because it's been another very long and busy day and I don't quite have the energy for the longer post I'd been hoping to write. Theatrical thinkings must wait until tomorrow (again!). Sorry! However, my plans to offer you something less wheely and rather more wordy have not been entirely scuppered, as this week also brought with it my very own copy of The Jane Game - the bookish board game of my title.

What is The Jane Game, you ask? A trivia game based on the works of my beloved Jane Austen. The premise is fairly simple - each player chooses a heroine to represent (out of seven, as Elinor and Marianne Dashwood both merit inclusion, of course). Then you navigate your way through Regency society, and gain grace, accomplishments, and maybe even a marriage proposal (or righteous independence) by answering questions about the books. Since you couldn't really get more up my street, I backed the Kickstarter last year, and it's just arrived. I'm so excited - aside from anything else, it looks beautiful:

Now I just need to get some of my fellow Janeites together to play - over tea or chocolate, naturally!

Racing stripes

A relatively short post this evening, as it's been a very long day. In recompense, however, I'm going to write an extra one tomorrow - I hope that's okay. (I've also recently been figuring out how to queue posts, in preparation for when I head off to camp, so in theory I'll be able to write entries in advance to be uploaded at certain times.)

Today's post, then, is a further ramble on my sitting position - the improvement of which is encapsulated in the top I was wearing. I'll add a photo from today if I can find one that's decent, otherwise I'll find another, once I'm not on the mobile version of Blogger. For now, though (and in the interest of anyone who might be using a screen-reader, since they aren't always great at translating images to speech), I'll describe it: it's machine-knitted, long-sleeved and decorated by a colourful, alternating pattern of horizontal stripes. It also happens to be the first item of clothing I bought independently, not just with my own money, but going into the shop and completing the entire purchase, with all the rigmarole of having a single hand with which both to drive and hold and then pay for it, on my own. I've had it since I was eleven, I love it, and it still fits. (The post on being skinny is for another day.)

The point of that added bit of history is that it felt a very apt choice of garment for today - especially when Mama made the comment that she did. She picked me up from a show at the National Theatre (about which I'll write properly tomorrow) and, whilst we navigated one of the smallest 'accessible' toilets I've ever encountered, said, 'Your stripes are exactly horizontal. When last do you remember your stripes being exactly horizontal?' This might seem both obtuse and insignificant, but she meant that she's so used to the stripes being slightly skew, because they naturally follow the line of my torso. The fact that she noticed their symmetry shows that I'm sitting more symmetrically - not all the time, but more frequently.

I'm beyond thrilled - because it means that I can feel more confident about wearing slightly more figure-hugging outfits. Not that I do so often - I love my hoodies and baggy trousers and haven't worn a dress since I was ten, by my own request - but it's nice to feel I have the option. Here's to racing ahead with recovery and reclaiming body image, eh?

Bringing Flexi Back

Did I just make a pun about my spine using a Justin Timberlake song lyric from 2006? Yes. Am I ashamed? No. Actually, I am a little, because a) the song is highly problematic in its culturally-appropriative and heteronormative discourses and b) it's nearly ten years old, which shows up the questionable music tastes of my much-less-politically-aware teenage self. With that as a caveat, then, I shall proceed with today's post - because it was too perfect a summation of the topic to ignore.

As will be obvious from the titles of my previous blogs (Walking by 2013 and 2015) my focus, for the greater part of the last few years, has been on my legs - or, more accurately, my limbs. The reason for that is twofold. Firstly, I was training to walk to collect my degree, and for walking, in the literal rather than colloquial sense of the word, one principally requires strong legs. Secondly, when my chair broke, it had such a detrimental effect on my core abdominal stability that I (somewhat ironically for a non-ambulant individual) didn't have much else to keep me upright other than those legs and arms.

Since I got my new chair, though, my stability is much improved. This means that I actually have the energy to work on my core again and to get the muscles back into the habit of supporting me. It also means I feel safe enough to move in a more flexible way. These are both hugely important if I want to maintain and extend the positive difference my consultant has observed in my spine. So, over the last few days, I've been incorporating exercises which have more emphasis on my upper body - from the mission of trying to reach my toes to (slightly less adventurous) diaphragmatic breathing, the latter in preparation for my first singing lesson in an absolute age at some point this week. 

Hopefully, if I keep up this regime, I've got a chance of bringing 'flexi' back - and maybe even the original JT lyric...who knows!?

Spinal countdown - #LovemyNHS

Today's post is a bit more detailed, and full of many emotions, but hopefully once you've read it its importance will be clear - both on a personal and a sociopolitical level. Bear with me!

This week, but especially last night and this morning, I have been a great big ball of nerves. Why? Well, today was my annual review appointment with my spinal consultant, and I was worried. Those of you who read Walking by 2015 might remember my joy, in May of last year, when he told me that my curve hadn't changed since our last check up in 2012. The thing is, May was only one month into life with a broken chair, and little did I know then how long I'd be left with it - or what an impact it would have on both my physical and mental health.

This time I was well aware of the beating my body has taken over the last fifteen months, so I was fully expecting the X-ray not only to be different but to have drastically deteriorated. Hence my anxiety - which led me to tweet banal and blackly humorous puns like 'Destressing before tomorrow's hospital appt by listening to The Kinks...because my spine has a few?' last night and to skip breakfast due to a swarm of particularly persistent butterflies in my stomach this morning. I was only slightly comforted by the appointment being at Guy's hospital (first established 1726), and the thought that I would be surrounded by reminders of my beloved era (though its original title, 'The Hospital for Incurables', might've served to remove the last vestiges of that comfort!). Ah, eighteenth-century bluntness! I suppose, at least, they didn't unnecessarily sugarcoat things. Bad news was given up front, like ripping off a plaster, not that they could do that then because Elastoplast hadn't been invented... These were the sort of over-analytical thoughts with which I attempted to console myself as we drove to Southwark, listening to thirteenth-century dance pieces on Radio 3 in the absence of any Baroque. Because that's how I roll.

Here is where we shift emotional gears, from jitters to joy. It turns out I needn't have been anxious - not only were there three lovely and understanding radiographers, and an X-ray chair which meant I could have it taken whilst sitting in a comfortable position, but the outcome was good. When I met with my consultant, the first thing he said was 'Wow, you're sitting better!', and, when we were examining the image, it seems that my spine has not just stayed the same but may actually even have improved! I'm rather thrilled by that, for obvious reasons, if slightly overwhelmed - I wasn't aware that it was possible for a curvature as severe as mine to get better (however marginally). I guess I'm  continuing to do what my paediatric orthopaedic consultant said I did, way back when I was twelve - bucking trends! (Or maybe I haven't given the Oxford cobbles due credit...!)

Mostly, though, I'm grateful. Super grateful. I don't have to have surgery, which is a huge relief, and it shows the benefits of a working chair, suitable seating and good postural management. If the difference in my seating position is noticeable just three weeks after I got my new chair, imagine the possibilities for further improvement before my appointment this time next year! It also underscores the value of a working and well-supported National Health Service, without which I and many of my friends would be unable to receive these regular checkups and continued care. For all my frustrations regarding the delays with my chair, I'm very conscious that they were largely a result of the increased workload (and decreased numbers) of staff with few other options thanks to copious cuts. I'm also extremely aware that the people I met at Guy's today (from the receptionist to the radiographers I mentioned above) are working under similarly difficult conditions - yet they went out of their way to be friendly, helpful and understanding. Jeremy Hunt should take note and give them, and their colleagues nationwide, the thanks and support they deserve. To use a metaphor appropriate to this piece, they have more backbone than he and the rest of this government put together. 

Which returns me to my spine. It's not perfect, but it's fine, and that's such a relief. I can sit up, and it seems my sitting up is making a difference, for the better. To celebrate, Mama and I went for a zoom along the South Bank, and I took the opportunity to indulge my thespian self by taking the photo below at the side of the National Theatre. The finger is publicity for the current production of Everyman, but its angle also shows just how well I'm sitting now! (Right, that's enough emotional rambling from me. Suffice to say that this spinal countdown is well and truly over. Huzzah!)

#IamEverywheely ;)

Eager wheeler

The keen bean that I am, I wrote 300 words of a preliminary paragraph for the first chapter of my PhD this morning, with the help of my wonderful friend (and willing typist), Cat. I'll post more about my thesis plans at another point, and shall chart the journey on this blog, but for now I just wanted to say how grateful I am (and how lovely it feels) to be upright and comfortable enough to concentrate properly on work - and to enjoy it!

(Although that's not hard when you're writing about your favourite pieces of theatre!)

Today's subject was the musical Wicked (which currently features another of my fabulous friends, Savannah) so, in the spirit of the show,

Thank Oz for friends and my new chair!

'Crazy dog lady!'

I wasn't planning on posting today, because three times a week seemed enough (having made previous and disastrous attempts at blogging daily), but then this happened and I thought you'd enjoy the video below. Now I have my new chair we've found a way for me to 'walk' both of the dogs myself at the same time:

Also, I can now ride comfortably on gravel! Bring on camp!

'Nice ride!'

Happy Saturday! Today's post is the first of many which will feature my beloved Hampstead Heath - the 7-mile stretch of (mostly) untamed parkland we are lucky enough to have just across the road. Over the last two-and-a-bit weeks, thanks to a combination of my new chair and this gorgeous weather we've had, I've been able to spend a lot of time there - usually, like today, with the dogs in tow. Mum and I took them for a ramble this morning, which is when the inspiration for this post occurred.

I was zooming down the first part of what eventually becomes Parliament Hill (so named following Guido Fawkes et al.'s Gunpowder Plot, because you could and can spot Westminster Palace from the top). Now, when I say 'zooming', I really mean zooming, because I can do it again. Carefully, of course, and respecting those around me - but relishing the feeling of the sun on my back, the wind in my hair, and the possibility of picking up some rather impressive speed. Aside from making sure that I wasn't disturbing any of my fellow Heath-goers, and checking on my dear dogs (who I'll introduce properly soon, because they deserve a post of  their own), I was pretty much in my own world. 

Imagine my surprise, then, at being lifted out of this reverie by the  gentle 'Hey' of a smiley (and attractive) Australian guy about my age who, when he caught my eye, followed his greeting with 'nice ride!'. I must admit I didn't know how to respond, so I just giggled and drove on, probably blushing furiously. I was caught off guard - not so much because he spoke to me as by the originality of his comment. Most people, however fast I'm going, shout 'don't get a speeding ticket!' and cackle away at the brilliance of their quip. (Except it isn't brilliant - if I had a pound [or even a penny!] for every time that particular line has been brought out, I'd be well on the way to paying off my student loan! Alas.) So to have someone not only say something different but for it to be positive, nay, approving...was, well, novel. And nice. More than that, though, his phrasing accounted for the importance of my chair whilst also acknowledging that we are separate entities. I don't live in it, I 'ride' in it - and apparently look rather good whilst doing so. That meant a lot - and was a huge boost to my self-esteem!

So, thanks, whoever you were - maybe in future I'll be more confident haha...

#Wheelchairproblems no.1

I feel I should start this post with a reassurance - my lovely, brand new chair is absolutely fine and fabulous. The title is a reference to the 'wheelchair problems' tag on Tumblr and Twitter, where people note the (often ironic and highly humorous) issues with which they are presented as they navigate this world sitting down. I've decided to detail some of my own as a recurring series of brief, lighthearted vignettes as a contrast to some of my lengthier and more involved pieces. For good measure, I'll post separately to catalogue their opposites, known by the tag 'wheelchair perks' - because I'm all about balance and, contrary to what people might think, there are many of both. All of these will be written in the second person, using 'you', as is the convention of the tags.

So, following that introduction, here is my offering for today (though it actually happened yesterday):

When you're waiting to cross the road and the green man flashes, but a car has stopped over the crossing leaving the tiniest gap, and your lovely friend Lucy has to put on her teacher voice to talk to the driver. They eventually move an inch, but by this time the light has changed, so you wait, again, watching Lucy scowl at the car as it drives off, and you can't help but giggle. 

Then you have tea, and all is right with the world, no matter how much mess you make by getting jam on your trousers.

I hope you've enjoyed this little tale. A huge thank you to Lucy for being stern with the traffic and for a lovely day.

The words and the wheels

I'm not new to this blogging lark. In fact I've been boring unsuspecting visitors to my corner of the blogosphere (or those who I forcibly brought here through excessive Facebook and Twitter linkage) for some time now. At least since 2012, when I started my training to walk to collect my BA on graduation day, and the page that went with it, Walking by 2013. Then I set up its sequel, Walking by 2015, when my wheelchair broke in April of 2014. Readers of the latter will have noticed, though, that my posts petered out in December...and probably thought (as I did) that that would be my final foray into this medium. 

The reason for that was my chair taking rather longer to be fixed than I had hoped (fifteen months, in the end!) and the consequent strain on my body. Basically, I was in such discomfort that there wasn't much of a project on which to report, and I didn't really get the point of publishing just for the sake of it. Particularly whilst I was in pain and trying to navigate the surprisingly physical challenges of a second Master's degree (but more on those later).

My chair is finally fixed, though, which means I can sit up again - and, having spent the last nine of those fifteen months with little space for anything other than essays, I've realised how much I've missed writing posts like these for fun. Not to a specified rubric, not with a particular tutor in mind, nor in the hopes that anyone will necessarily read them - but just because it's something I enjoy. Also, not having a fully working or workable mode of transport for so long has made me more fully appreciate the freedom my chairs have afforded me - and the possibilities that this new one is helping me to rediscover. I am slowly coming to understand how these two aspects of my life combine to give me a perspective which is to be celebrated and embraced (spasms, speeding, fights with steps and all) rather than shied away from and chiselled down to size.

I am wordy and I am wheely, and both are equally valid - one does not have to hide the other - and they might actually make each other more interesting!

That's pretty much the point of this blog. So, if you fancy reading the occasional ramble, do stop by. I'd love to have you!