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It was getting increasingly awkward as time went on, and it is now nigh on impossible for me to press the shutter-release on my camera — a seemingly simple task is elevated to the rank of “bloody difficult” by the slight weakening of my right index finger. This weakening isn’t a huge amount, as I can still grip things fairly effectively and wagging is still very much a viable activity, but pressing that little button is too much for my frigid digit to manage without me having to hold the camera at a weird angle and therefore render the resulting photo useless to anyone but lovers of the abstract.

The solution? Spend more cash!!!

Seriously, though, I’ve been looking into different cameras and have pinned my hopes on being able to use a ‘pistol grip’ alternative for my future photography related shenanigans. More specifically, the Sanyo VPC-HD1000 which, as you may notice, is primarily a comcorder with still picture taking capabilities — I settled on this make and model after a good few days of research, reading reviews and forums and, finally, finding one for a decent price. As it happened, I ordered for it for the same amount (minus a pound) that I had sold my old MacBook for two hours earlier — I like the symmetry to that.

So hopefully my Flickr account won’t sit idly by in the future and I shall finally have something that I deem worthy enough to upload to Vimeo. But I think David Bailey can still rest easy …

My contribution to Blogging Against Disablism Day 2009.

~

24th March 1985

Dear Dr. Bastard (name supplied),

I appreciate that, as a seasoned medical professional, you have met, diagnosed and treated many people with varying degrees of illness and disability. I especially appreciate that, as a senior doctor, you’ve probably seen more than your fair share of emotional patients and accompanying family or friends.

But, you bastard, that does not give you the right to dismiss my mother’s questions and concerns with the downright unsympathetic and entirely callous way you did. Telling her that “there’s nothing that can be done, no treatment, nothing” and then asking if I’d agree to pose for regular photographs so you could “monitor the deterioration” whilst my mother sobbed, rendered me entirely speechless. In fact, if I had had the slightest inclination that the conversation was about to turn that way with you seemingly flicking a switch in your attitude, I would’ve insisted that we left immediately.

As it was, having only been diagnosed a few months before, I’d been led to believe that you could help us because, as a family, we had absolutely no idea what to expect from whatever the hell this “FSH muscular dystrophy” was.

Yours sincerely,

Tim Griffin

~

8th May 1985

Dear Mr. Head Of Year (name supplied),

I appreciate that, as my head of year, you need to look out for all the pupils under your care. I especially appreciate that you take a little extra time to look after the ones with “special needs.”

But, sir, whilst informing all my subject teachers of my newly diagnosed disability was a good idea as it means they can be on the lookout for when I may need help, instructing them to address me by my first name rather than my surname, as they do every other pupil, was not.

I understand your intentions may have been purely for the good, but I wish you had seen fit to ask me about it beforehand as all it did was single me out as one boy amongst a hundred who was getting special treatment — some of the other boys, especially the spoilt little rich kids, took exception to this and used it as an excuse to, how shall I put this, give me some special treatment of their own. While the bruises only hurt for a short while, the names stung for a bit longer.

Yours sincerely,

Tim Griffin (form 2C)

~

7th June 1993

Dear Mr. Security Guard,

I appreciate that, as security guard at the Crowngate shopping centre in Worcester, you need to look out for all the customers in and around the shops. I especially appreciate that you take a little extra time to put a smile on your face and nod courteously to whomsoever meets your gaze.

But, sir, I don’t appreciate you striding up to me in a purposeful manner, giving me the “thumbs up” about an inch from my face and saying, rather loudly, “Alright mate??” I can only assume that you thought I was also deaf and blind.

However, the look on your face when I grabbed your sleeve and said: “ENYEHARGHERNYAHERG!!” shall be treasured ‘til the day I die.

Yours faithfully,

The guy in the wheelchair surrounded by laughing mates

~

1st May 2009

Dear Drunken Women,

I appreciate that, as drunken women, you feel the need to walk up to me in nightclubs, inform me that you think I’m “grrrreat!” and then kiss me and/or thrust your boobs in my face, but …

Actually, ignore this — please continue.

Yours thankfully,

The guy in the wheelchair with the big grin

~~~

I’ve since removed the ability to comment, but I kept the ones attached to this entry.

Caddy x
fantastic! heartbreaking, thought provoking, cringeworthy, infuriating and the finale was funny as f*ck!
I remember the walking ‘freak exhibit’ treatment well - my brother Les was treated the same. My mother put a stop to the photo’s & ‘look , prod and learn’ sessions for med student when she began to see that what may have been helpful / curious to med students was damaging and brutal to my then 12yr old brother. “see how ape-like he is” or similar was the comment that ended it! mind you he should not have been swinging on the light fittings with a banana in his hand!! LOL! xx

Darren
Brill *puts thumb up in your face*

tommy
very good, unfortunately I can relate to all of these things.
Also unfortunately number 4 doesn’t happen often enough for my liking :)

The Morningstar
Excellent post, another one that makes me wish I could write as well.

Damon Lord
Thanks for a great read of a great blogpost. It’s a delicious way to name and shame those who’ve been twats.

Sue
Dear Tim
I read this last night and thought it was absolutely brilliant. You paint such a vivid picture, and the punch-line “letter” is a lovely spin. I just came back for a re-read, and realised that I was drunk enough last night when I commented not only to use an undisguised obscenity but to put the comment on the previous post! Sorry - you might want to remove it.
Love from Sue xxx

fridawrites
I laughed aloud about the response to the security guard. I have imaginary letters I’d like to write too and enjoyed reading these.

Shirley Wendy
I don’t SOB. Snivel yes but not sob…..x x

naiza oclares
Letter number one is very much exactly I’d experience when MD said that I’ll never walk again and better my legs be freeze in a wheelchair for me to be mobile at least. Of course, my mom become is devastated crying her heart out that I deserve somehow a second opinion. I don’t know what happen to that doctor. But he doesn’t have the right to shutter down people’s heart whether or not there is still hope out there. Great post! I enjoyed reading it. :)

Russ & Norm
I love the security guard story, recount it to people regularly, always makes me laugh :-)
Didn’t realise school was so hard but remember that tit with the blond hair, would still like to have him pointed out today and see if he’s still a tit and deserving of the slap he never got because you had to see every day at school. It’s true, you can write well bro xxx #1

Lady Bracknell’s Editor
I know you struggled to compose this without all the swear words.
But. it.was.worth.it.
Excellent stuff.

NTE
A great BADD post. And the fact that it had such a great punch line was an absolute bonus!

I shall rejoin the ranks of bloggers, wheelies, walkers or otherwise, writing their views and opinions on disabled discrimination.

So say we all!