Looking Up

First up, let's start this post with a short disclaimer:
I am really grateful that people take an interest in the kind of challenges I face on a daily basis, and delighted when they point me in the direction of stuff that they think may be of help, or simply of interest. I do keep an ear to the ground with regard to new products and research that is taking place, but that certainly doesn't mean that I am up to date with every new innovation that comes along. Please keep me in the loop. I genuinely appreciate it.

But, come on, (some) people. I am one of the more self-obsessed bloggers out there, with a confessional streak that often means I don't just disappear up my own backside, I also report on what I find. So if you have come across me, and feel that you want to share whatever you have recently discovered, please do a wee bit of homework. You don't have to buy my book (please buy my book) to learn that I have a T12 complete spinal cord injury. This means I have no movement or sensation below my waist (except for my left testicle. See, there I go again with too much information).

I bring this up because I was contacted today by someone who had come across a product that they thought may be of use to me: The Glidecycle.

I went to the website, and watched a short film that demonstrates the product. Then I imagined being 'assisted' into one of these things, and pushed on my way with a, "Be free! Ride like the wind!", only for my feet to drag along the ground and then my whole sorry carcass to slow, stop and fall sideways.

Obviously the makers of this product would not do such a thing. And I can see where a product like this could be really useful for people who are prevented from exercising due to joint problems or obesity. It does look to me like a grown up one of these, but I'm sure there are lots of excellent reasons why risking concussion on an overhead 'crossbar' is a good idea.

All I'm saying is, if you do get in touch, maybe focus on ideas and innovations that aren't going to make me re-live the terror of learning to ride a bike with absolutely no chance of ever cracking it.

On the other hand, if you want to put me in one of these, I'm raring to go...

My latest piece for BT Storytellers:

Of all the venues that make up the Olympic Park, there is one that holds a unique honour....

 When the wheelchair tennis players take to the courts of Eton Manor, they will bring competition to the only venue that has been built exclusively for Paralympic competition.

The grass courts of Wimbledon will be hosting the Olympic tennis, but the surface is not well suited to wheelchair players, as pushing is made harder. When coupled with the low bounce, this reduces the potential for longer, more open rallies, and would also make competition in the Quad category virtually impossible.

Instead, the Paralympic tennis players have been provided with a spanking new facility on the site of the old Eton Manor Boys Club in the Olympic Park. The venue boasts nine outdoor courts for competition and four practice courts. Following the Games, the building adjoining the site will also contain four indoor courts. Over all, Eton Manor will provide an impressive legacy to British tennis that could inspire champions in the years ahead.

But first there is the small matter of Paralympic competition to consider. This weekend saw Eton Manor host an International Tennis Federation level 3 rated tournament, part of the London Prepares series of test events.

The line up included some of the top names in wheelchair tennis, including Robin Amerlaan, former world number one, and Britain's Peter Norfolk, currently ranked number one in the world in the quad division.

And now, I would like us all to take a moment to appreciate Peter Norfolk's record. He is chasing quad singles Gold in London to add to previous honours that include Paralympic Gold in Athens as well as Beijing, and six Grand Slam titles (this puts him just two behind Fred Perry).

It is true to say that the field is smaller, but to dominate the division for so long is an impressive achievement, especially when one considers the fierce rivalry that has existed between Norfolk and America's David Wagner for much of his career.

Finished appreciating Mr. Norfolk's record? Impressive, yes? Right. Now let me introduce you to the current world number one in women's wheelchair tennis.

Esther Vergeer has won three consecutive singles Paralympic Gold Medals. She has also won twenty Grand Slam titles (compared with, say, Roger Federer's sixteen). However, these figures do not do her tennis career justice.

Consider this: The last time Esther Vergeer lost a competitive match was in 2003. And she's been busy. Very busy. Vergeer's unbeaten run now stretches to four hundred and fifty-four consecutive matches. If there is a record to match this in any sport, I am yet to find it.

The women's final on Saturday at Eton Manor saw Vergeer take on Britain's number one Jordanne Whiley, currently ranked twelve in the world. On a windy and very cold centre court, Whiley started brightly, narrowly losing the first set 7-5 before Vergeer seemed to open her shoulders and pull away, taking the second set 6-1. It was an efficient performance in unpleasant conditions, but one can't help but think that Vergeer's record must surely sow a seed of doubt in any opponent's mind.

Before the women, Peter Norfolk got off to a slow start in the quad final, dropping the first set 2-6 before a rain interruption saw him regroup and take the next two sets 7-6 7-5. After the match Norfolk described the tournament as a great opportunity to see how the courts played and to get a feel for the facilities ahead of the Games.
"I can't wait to get out on Centre Court with a big British crowd on my side."

He's not the only one. As a passionate if erratic wheelchair tennis player myself, I am relishing the prospect of Paralympic tennis on the doorstep. The facilities are certainly impressive, if a little cold. Hopefully late summer will provide more conducive weather.

Olympic Park feels more exciting with each visit, as more and more areas are nearing completion and the numbers of visitors increase. That said, I was very disappointed to see empty seats in many venues. This is because there were only a limited number of tickets made available, but it seems scandalous not to use the opportunity to invite children from local schools for what could be the only opportunity they get to see competition in the venues.

This is a real waste of an opportunity, especially with tennis, which can do much to inspire more integration in sport and beyond. The International Tennis Federation is the governing body for ALL tennis players, and the only difference between a wheelchair player and someone on two feet is that the wheelchair player is allowed a second bounce of the ball. This means that I can take my tennis wheelchair to the local park and play with anybody. People immediately understand what's going on, and that can help to begin to change the way that some view disability sport.

I may not be Peter Norfolk, but for a couple of hours on Hackney Downs of a Sunday (with a bit of luck and a decent backhand slice), I can at least pretend...

My latest posting for BT Storytellers:

There is a loud crash as two vehicles collide head-on, immediately followed by a scraping sound of metal on metal as a third vehicle joins the pile-up and is overturned.

 We are not on the motorway. We are in an arena. Welcome to the violent world of wheelchair rugby. The action is frenetic and the hits are big. It's not by chance that the sport was originally dubbed 'murderball'.

I'm at the Olympic Basketball Arena, where Australia, Sweden, Canada and Great Britain (ranked second, fourth, fifth and sixth in the world respectively) are doing battle in The London International Invitational Wheelchair Rugby Tournament. The event is part of the London Prepares series.

As well as enabling LOCOG to test vital areas of operation ahead of the 2012 Games, the programme gives the athletes an opportunity to sample the facilities and get a feel for the venues.

The journey to the venue also presents me with a great opportunity to see how the Olympic Park is shaping up. The Basketball Arena feels like the furthest point away from the Stratford entrance to the park, so the journey from gate to door is like a mini-tour of many of the venues.

There is expectancy in the flurry of activity devoted to getting everything ready for 27th July. The paths and other surfaces are laid, lampposts are being wired up, even the planting is starting to emerge from the flowerbeds.

In the chaos of this enormous building site nestle some iconic buildings. The Velodrome has an elegance and simplicity in the way that it uses the shape of the track contained inside to create the silhouette of the building. I have often admired it from the road, especially as it sits in a location I came to know and love in a previous life when it held the Eastway cycle track, the site of many thrills and spills in my enthusiasm for cycling.

This visit offers me my first close look at the Aquatic Centre, designed by acclaimed architect Zaha Hadid. The main body of the structure sits caged between two temporary wings that house additional seating and which will be removed after the Games. It has the feel of an airship in a hangar, awaiting the opportunity to fly.

The Basketball Arena itself is less impressive. A temporary structure, the outside resembles a collection of giant springs that have been shrink-wrapped in white plastic. Inside, the 12,000 seat venue has a bit of a circus tent feel to it, although when filled, the steep banks of seats pouring down onto a single court are certain to produce an electric atmosphere.

But for this event there are only a few hundred tickets available, so the venue feels quiet and empty. That said, once the action starts it only takes a few big hits before the crowd offer enthusiastic vocal support for the home team.

Wheelchair rugby has its origins in Canada in the late seventies, when the only wheelchair team sport widely played was basketball. For athletes with upper limb impairments, the hand control necessary to dribble and shoot made basketball unsuitable.

A group of wheelchair athletes conceived a new team sport that would allow tetraplegic (also called quadriplegic) players to compete. Where wheelchair basketball involved limited contact between wheelchairs that comes from players blocking each other, the aggressive full contact element of this newly conceived sport led to the original name: 'murderball'.

The sport has come a long way since then, and gained full-medal status at the Sydney Paralympics in 2000.

Even as a spectator sport, Wheelchair Rugby is not for the feint of heart; players are often overturned, and injuries are not uncommon. In 2010, GB captain Steve Brown took a hit from two players simultaneously during a match in Germany. The collision resulted in Brown breaking his sternum and four or five ribs as well as suffering bruising around his heart.

The aggressive element means that first impressions of wheelchair rugby can be interesting. Because many players (but certainly not all) are wheelchair users as the result of injury, some people take the view that they should 'know better' than to participate in such a dangerous sport.

As a wheelchair user myself, I certainly feel that I have as much right to participate in 'dangerous' sporting activities as anyone else. It may be uncomfortable viewing for people to see upturned wheelchairs with players on their backs, waiting to be righted by members of the coaching staff. But watch the opposition. I can guarantee that they will seek to take advantage of their opponents being a man down before they stop to offer assistance.

This is a good example of the ways in which disability sport can contribute to a better understanding of disability that can help to shape social attitudes. Let's be clear: I'm not suggesting that an upturned wheelchair user should always be ignored. But equally, calling an ambulance at the first sign of difficulty is inappropriate. A better response would be to check with the person concerned to see what assistance they need (if any).

It's important to remember that generalisations and stock responses toward disabled people are as likely to be inaccurate as those directed at any other section of society.

There has been much talk about the legacy of the Games. This isn't just about improved transport links or more housing in east London. It could also mean a better understanding of different forms of disability.

The Paralympic Games provide a unique showcase to demonstrate how exciting disability sport can be. It is also an opportunity for people to get a measure of the levels of personal sacrifice made by the participants. These are elite athletes at the peak of their abilities, often with less support than their able-bodied counterparts.

They don't need to be told how brave they are. They do need a rousing cheer and enthusiastic support.

So, THE anniversary came and went two weeks ago. This is certainly the latest I have left it to observe the date on here. The date in question was, of course, the 1st of April. The day of fools. The day that I broke my spine, and found myself embarking on a dramatic and terrifying journey as I struggled to cope with the change in direction that my life took.

That was seven years ago, and so much has changed since then. I have written a book, embarked on a new career as a journalist, become a father (twice) and completely given up using ladders and tap dancing.

This year, I found myself spending the 1st of April deeply involved in training a new crop of wheelchair skills instructors for Back Up. It was an intense and tiring weekend, but very rewarding. Passing on the skills that I have gained felt like a great way to mark the seventh anniversary.

It's been an interesting journey, and an empowering one (I know I have mentioned it before, not least for The Guardian, but it's my anniversary , so indulge me). When I think back to my first encounter with Back Up, when Dave Ball and Sean McCallion came into the National Spinal Injuries Centre at Stoke Mandeville, it had a big impression on me. Their accomplished wheelchair skills were impressive, but as important was hearing about places they had been, and plans they were making to go skiing, or pushing up Mount Snowdon.

A few years later I jumped at the opportunity to get involved as a volunteer wheelchair skills instructor, and soon learned that being 'an example' is an integral part of the programme. I don't mean that to sound boastful. The example we offer is that we are getting on with stuff. That stuff may be different with each instructor you meet, but the desire to maximise the potential in what we 'have left' is a common denominator.

So now I find myself alongside Sean (and Stuart, Lucy and Michael), helping a new bunch of wheelchair users to get involved as instructors. I was reminded of the awkward self-consciousness I felt when I first tried to present a session. I remembered being convinced that I would make a complete mess of going down two steps, and end up in a tangled heap of limbs under my wheelchair at the bottom (I haven't yet). But I also remembered going into the spinal centre and looking at a room full of newly injured people and wondering if I could possibly offer them the shift in perspective that Back Up offered me seven years ago.

In some ways, very little has changed in the time since my accident. I still have no feeling below the waist. I am still engaged in a constant battle with neuropathic pain. I still spend a little time every day thinking about the things that I can longer do. I still haven't been skiing.

But there are also many things that have changed. I don't view my life since as a consolation, spent gazing at the floor or looking wistfully out of the window (there was a bit of that in the first few weeks).  I'm confidently independent. I'm following a different (and enjoyable) career path. While I still have my beloved Penny, I also have two children to dote over.
Most importantly, my eyes are more often on the future than the past.

Here's my latest article for BT Storytellers on meeting Jonnie Peacock, Paralympic sprinter:

 

Anticipation is building as we move to within six months of The Games. Storytellers around the country are tapping into this excitement, recording the 2012 effect on the national mood.

Many of us are wishing we had tickets. Some of us are wondering how the demands placed on public transport in the summer will affect us. We might be trying to decide which other events we will attend, or what cultural activities are taking place in our local community this year.

Yes, people. The Circus is coming to town. The biggest travelling circus on the planet. Lives will be changed forever, and we can be a part of it. But while there are plenty of opportunities for us to 'take part' in the spectacle, our main role will be that of the spectator. We will come in our millions to watch, to wonder at the triumphs and failures as the very best strive to win. For some it will be the culmination of a lifetime's work. Others will be just starting out on their sporting careers. Either way, this event will shape the rest of their lives.

But while we seek to capture the energy that is building around the Olympics and Paralympics, there is a calm eye to the storm. For the athletes themselves, there is still a long way to go. The training continues, there are other events to compete in, injury worries, nutritional details to be worked out, shoes, helmets, blades, wheels to be experimented with. With so much going on, they need to be aware of but not overwhelmed by the sense of anticipation.

Earlier this week, I caught up with Jonnie Peacock, Paralympic sprinter. One to watch, he has the potential to be the best. Inspired to run after seeing Oscar Pistorius, Jonnie went along to a Talent ID day run by The British Paralympic Association and was immediately identified as a real prospect.

Having the talent is only one part of the equation. To be a success an athlete also has to have the drive, the desire to win, the self-discipline, the confidence.

When we talk about talent, Jonnie smiles.
"My coach always says, "You have to outwork your talent.""

"The world record is 10.91. My coach was recently asked who is the one to watch. He replied, "Jonnie Peacock. If he doesn't run 10.9 in London, it's his own fault."

I wonder if this feels like more pressure. If it is, Jonnie takes it calmly in his stride.
"I have the ability to run quick. I don't like to say a time, because I don't know what I'm capable of. I have ideas but until I have five races behind me this season, I don't know what time I'll be running. I surprise myself every year, and I'm in good form at the moment.

"All the medals [in the T44 100 meters] will be decided under 11.2 seconds. It's going to be a hugely competitive event. There are three Americans coming up that are young and they've all taken their times down quickly. Then there's Jerome Singleton and Oscar Pistorius, but Oscar is very focussed on the 400 meters. If he goes to the Olympics, he's likely to be drained. The media attention there is going to be immense. He's been working for it for so long that it will be the height of his career and everything will have been focussed on peaking for that event."

So if the most famous Paralympian on the planet is not guaranteed Gold, does Jonnie think it might be his for the taking? He soon dampens such speculation.

"If you're on that start line thinking "If I get a Gold medal my life's changed," you're not going to run quick. I still don't know exactly what my race plan is going to be or what I'm going to think about when I'm on the line. At the moment I just focus on keeping my head down and exploding out of the blocks, pushing through my left hip. Running the 100 meters is all about acceleration. If you stand up too quickly, you have to hold your top speed for longer because otherwise you start to decelerate. Each step feeds the next step. If you take a step wrong in the 100 meters it can be the difference between first place and last place."

All of the hard work that Jonnie has put in will come down to those few steps. How does he cope with the pressure, the sense of anticipation?

"Sometimes I wake up and think "Two years of training is all for 11 seconds of a race. What's the point?" But it's something I love. I love athletics because it's so raw. If that guy was in front of you, he won. If that guy threw a little further than you, he won. It's about the strongest, the fastest.

"Other times I wake up and think, "What if I break my toe two weeks before the Games? What happens if I fall over and break my elbow, or if I get a cold on the day and it affects my performance?" To combat this, I just take things step by step. This morning I didn't think London's only six months away. I thought, ah I've got to make breakfast. Then I've got to go to training, and then on the track I'm focussed on what I have to do on the track."

And with that, it's time for Jonnie Peacock to hit the gym and dream of dinner. One step at a time...

Before my accident, I was pretty good at social interactions. I could hug, kiss, handshake or wink with the best of them. Yes, there would be the traditional British awkwardness from time to time; both going for the same side so cheeks were replaced with lips when kissing, or bear-hugs replaced with headbutts.

There would even be the occasional handshake/upside down handshake/fistbump awkwardness that goes with people trying to adopt unfamiliar habits, something that still happens over the tennis net from time to time. Basketball is easier as we all know that we're in America-land when we take to the court, but tennis seems a bit too British for all that buddy-bonhomie. I'm sure the appeal of tennis for many is that you stand as far away as possible from your opponent, except a brief handshake at the end.

But sporting thank-yous aside, these days my physical interactions are all different. Hugs are physically tricky, as my 'opponent' has to bow, making bear-hugs impossible, and if they go to enthusiastically at it, they are liable to tip me out of my wheelchair. Kisses are fine, but I often find myself placing a gentle hand on the person's neck or back to replace the shoulder-hold that often accompanies such a greeting or farewell.

But there is another aspect of non-verbal communication that has changed profoundly without me realising just how much until fairly recently when someone pointed it out to me: Eye contact.

Growing up in Lahndon as a geezer meant that eye contact as a young man was often highly charged. One lived in fear of being accused by some psycho of, "Staring me out?" In truth, this is not just a London thing, as anyone who is familiar with the most iconic scene in Taxi Driver will appreciate.

When it comes to conversation with people who are not looking for heads to rip off, eye-contact becomes important for establishing a positive connection. It can make people feel listened to and appreciated. It is probably the most powerful non-verbal communication tool that we have.

However, when one is in a wheelchair, eye contact become much more difficult to maintain. To start with, unless someone is sitting down, making eye contact often means looking up (which can be a real pain in the neck). But it becomes even more difficult when one is moving. As a biped, it's pretty easy to ambulate in any direction and still maintain some open postural engagement with the person you are talking to. As a wheelchair user I spend much of my time looking down, concentrating on what is in front of me lest it bring me to an abrupt halt. If I am moving along with from someone or away from them, eye contact is nigh on impossible.

It is possible that this reduction in non-verbal communication can contribute to the 'Does he take sugar' attitude somes people with disabilities experience. If I am not making eye contact with someone, I am limiting my ability to convey different inferences to what I am saying. Obviously people with impaired sight are likely to be without this communication tool, but I have had many years of using eye contact, in particular eye contact from above average height, so I am sure that my conversational habits have incorporated this over time.

So I have decided to really try and make more eye to eye contact, just to see what effect it has on me and on those I am talking to.

With this in mind, I would like to take this opportunity to apologise in advance to anyone who's feet (or pets) I run over. I can only look forward to seeing the suffering in your eyes.

Here's a link to a piece I've written for the BBC on life as a disabled dad.

In my experience, the overwhelming majority of people are considerate in their encounters with me. If there is ever an issue, it's usually due to haste or just not looking, most notably when people let the door go in my face.

If I'm left feeling uncomfortable, it's usually due to an exaggerated gesture, like clearing a space big enough for me to drive a car through, or warning everyone within fifty yards that I'm coming. This is particularly true of staff in music venues. I know it's partly down to deafness caused by years of loud gigs, or a general weariness caused by years of dealing with drunken idiots. Either way, it is charming to make your way through a crowd with a chaperone with shoulders like a rhino, shouting,
 "WHEELCHAIR COMING THROUGH! MIND YOUR BACKS!".

But lately, I have encountered one section of society who don't always offer me such courtesy. I recently had a set of doors persistently obstructed while my presence was met with ambivalence. On another occasion, I was at performance when someone stood right in front of me. When I pointed out that I couldn't stand, I was told, "Well you should have got here in plenty of time then."

Rest assured, I made it absolutely clear that I had arrived in plenty of time,using th strongest language appropriate to the situation The gentleman in question tempered his behaviour after that, but on both occasions, it was people from the same demographic who were behaving in such a selfish and inconsiderate manner.

I don't like to make generalisations for fear of courting prejudice, but I feel I can remain silent no longer. So I'm just going to say it. Parents. There.

Yes, I know the arguments, they have different cultural values (usually those of a toddler), but I'm still a little disappointed. Especially because on both occasions I was there because I am  'one of them' too.

The door being obstructed was at the swimming pool as I tried to get Rosalie through it so that she could attend her class. The obstructors were all jockeying for position so that they could gawp through the windows at their offspring slapping the water to a foam and hitting each other with the floats.

The second incident happened first, but was certainly the most shocking. The event I was attending was Rosalie's school Christmas assembly, complete with massed ranks of recorder players and a sort of nativity theme.

Again, I'm inclined to think that it's their love and enthusiasm that makes them behave so badly when they are focused on their offspring.It's not a great example to be offering to the next generation, for sure. But what makes it all the more strange is that we're all just trying to see our kids too. And obviously, mine are much more important than all the others...

Just before Christmas I spoke at a charity fundraiser for Murray's Muscles, an organisation that does much to help those affected by muscular dystrophy. It was a challenge to think of what to say: My story has little in common with the experiences of those affected by muscular dystrophy. I have experience of navigating the world as a wheelchair user, but I do not have a degenerative condition, and many of my attitudes to life were shaped over thirty-six years as a biped.

But I am also a father, and so I tried to focus on what we can all do to improve the life experiences of children with disabilities. Here's an excerpt from the speech that I delivered.

"Much of the frustration that I felt during my rehabilitation came from having to learn life skills all over again, especially as I was doing this without the energy and wide-eyed enthusiasm of youth. It's easy to forget the excitement and enthusiasm that accompanied those first forays into independence.
 
Yes, we may remember moving away from home for the first time, but go back further. Can you remember the first time you made your own breakfast? This example is on my mind, as the father of a six-year old daughter. I have often reflected on these formative experiences while mopping up puddles of milk and picking cornflakes out of the toaster.
 
As a parent I can see how many of my daughter's games and activities are concerned with playing at being a grown-up and an enthusiasm for doing things on her own. But while I can appreciate the joy in this when I watch her, I felt very differently when I was trying to discover my independence the second time around.
 
It was certainly harder as my struggles with daily activities were soundtracked by a voice in my head just kept saying, "What's the fuss. You can do this." It took me some time to re-calibrate my expectations, to let go of habits learned in a former life, but once I reconciled myself to the reality of my changed circumstances, I learned the value in plotting these tiny victories as steps along the way to claiming my life.
 
I can remember the first time I got my own breakfast in the spinal unit. I can also remember the first time post-injury that I went to the toilet on my own, had a shower, made a cup of tea or cooked a meal. It's easy to forget that these relatively mundane activities help to give us a sense of independence. As adults we take these things for granted until they are denied us.
 
To this day, I view such modest activities with a new perspective. This can be frustrating for those close to me, who have to watch me struggling with something that they could do with ease, but it's important that I do things for myself. This is who I am.
 
I have also come to realise that the accumulated affect of these modest achievements has been to build a new confidence, which has led to a new creative drive and in turn a new career. I began by writing about my own experiences. But I also had some questions to ask. How has my life changed? Are all the changes necessary? Should I be changing my expectations of what life has to offer, just because I'm in a wheelchair? Over time, I have developed and approach to everything that can best be summed up as,
"Find a way to do it, then decide if it's worth the effort."
 
My bloody mindedness has also led to me becoming a wheelchair skills instructor for a spinal injuries charity. And when I work with children with disabilities, I can see how empowering it can be when we are able to offer them opportunities to establish some independence, however modest it may seem. It may be helping to establish the confidence to self-propel, or negotiating a kerb or steep ramp.
 
Not everyone has the same goals, expectations or abilities. But it's not a competition.  It is important that every individual is given the opportunity to grow, to find their own boundaries, to make the most of what their life can offer."

Now, you could be forgiven for thinking that this posting is just an excuse to stick up some pics of my tattoos, now they are finished. In a way you're right, but there is a point to this, I promise.

When the 'to ink or not to ink' discussion comes up, there is often an anti-tattoo argument that goes along the lines of, "Yes, but think what they'll look like when you're old and sagging..."

I've never fully understood the point that this line is supposed to make, because by then you'll be... well, old and sagging. I can see the sense in making the choice of any permanent body marking with care. Having a lover's name, or a portrait of your favourite pet is a risky strategy. They may dump you for another who offers better cat-food, or you might split up with said lover.

Equally risky is the 'under the hairline' option. Yes, you can grow your hair long to cover up the artwork, but the prospect of going bald is stressful enough without worrying that low tide will uncover the moniker of some obscure thrash metal band named after a venereal disease.

Our image obsessed culture puts everyone under pressure to conform/perform, and leaves the majority of people feeling out of step with unrealistic expectations. With the veneration of youth, everyone gradually falls further and further behind anyway. There are times when I struggle to understand how we reached a point where people desperately throw money at their no longer compliant bodies and go under the knife, or stain themselves with orange dye to give the appearance of imminent skin-cancer.

What makes it all the more absurd is that we have arrived at a point where looking like you have had plastic surgery is considered preferable to aging. People who would rather paralyse their faces until they resemble death masks, than look like they have been alive for a while.

 But when it comes to matters of body image, it is safe to say that spinal cord injury pretty much blows many such trivial concerns out of the water. With legs like a pair of over-sized pipe-cleaners, and a constant 'sitting down' profile around my middle, I am hardly feeling vain these days. Clothes don't hang right, my cuffs are always covered in 'something from my wheels', my hands have calluses big enough to file my nails on. Sure, I have bigger arms and shoulders than before, but I also have thighs like balloons full of treacle.

But I'm OK with all that. Coming to terms with never walking or running again makes one's appearance seem trivial at first. Then, during rehabilitation, one learns how to compromise and the importance of making the best of what's left. I still care about how I look, but over time I am getting more comfortable with living in my own skin. I've just embellished it a little.



P.S. Should you be wondering, the picture tells my story: it is a play on the traditional rhyme recited when magpies are sighted: One for sorrow (the bird closest to my broken spine). Two for joy (an Australian magpie, Gymnorhina tibicen, for my Australian wife Penny. Three for a girl, for my daughter Rosalie. Four for a boy, for my son Felix.
As the next two would be five for silver and six for gold, me being nowhere near a place in the British Paralympic team means that I am unlikely to go any further with the whole ridiculous idea.