As pants the hart…

‘Thou makest thine appeal to me:

     I bring to life, I bring to death:

     The spirit does but mean the breath:

I know no more.’ And he, shall he,

Man, her last work, who seem’d so fair,

     Such splendid purpose in his eyes,

     Who roll’d the psalm to wintry skies,

Who built him fanes of fruitless prayer,

Who trusted God was love indeed

     And love Creation’s final law –

     Tho’ Nature, red in tooth and claw

With ravine, shriek’d against his creed –

Who loved, who suffer’d countless ills,

     Who battled for the True, the Just,

     Be blown about the desert dust,

Or seal’d within the iron hills?

– Alfred, Lord Tennyson: In Memoriam

Context is everything. If I’d have encountered a pricket sitting like this, ostensibly relaxed, in Charlecote Park, I would possibly have photographed it, but then walked on by: so common a sight is it. Although part of me would have wondered why such a young deer was on its own; and then questioned why I could get so very close.

Within touching distance – although the small buck paid me no attention – the previous few catastrophic minutes of its short life were etched on its body; as well as its behaviour. Stock-still: blood and sputum dribbled slowly from its gasping mouth; and when it did eventually try to rise, the pain was too much to bear. At least one of its back legs was badly broken; and it had almost certainly suffered internal injuries.

And so it collapsed again. And again. In the middle of a busy, damp, dark road. Lined with the shelter of trees it so craved. And, although, on the surface, it appeared alert – as all fallow deer must – its ignorance of the cars that flashed and swerved solipsistically within inches of its failing, agonized frame, was proof that these intense moments were almost certainly and sadly among its last.

It was utterly helpless: and yet my sympathy and empathy counted for naught. I could do not a thing to help it. There was no way of comforting it; diluting its undoubted panic and shock. To touch it, stroke it, as one may do with an injured pet, would just have made things worse. All I could do was wait for the vet – and his inescapable conclusion.

¶

My incident report sounds so matter-of-fact:

I was travelling relatively slowly up the hill (40 mph in a 60 mph zone), as I had witnessed deer here, before, and there was still patchy fog; and was overtaken by the car… which then collided, as it pulled in front of me, with the deer crossing the road from Red Hill Wood (from the left). The animal suffered at least a broken rear leg, and was obviously in shock, and could not raise itself – even when approached, or passed closely by other traffic. The Police and Ambulance services attended at my request (the car’s front airbags had deployed), and a local vet was called – I presume to euthanize the poor animal.

All the above forces arrived within minutes of my call; and dealt calmly and admirably with the situation: taking care of the driver – who was also in some distress, of course – protecting the injured deer; and directing the traffic: which, until the police arrived, had obviously just seen the two cars stopped, with their hazard lights on, as a deliberate inconvenience – hooting their horns; chicaning around us at speed (without paying any attention to oncoming vehicles or the poor, anguished, headlamp-highlighted animal); and thanking me for my consideration with a veritable volley of V-signs.

No-one else stopped to help. Or to ask if any help was needed. To my accident‑jaded eyes, everyone actually appeared to be trying to make things worse. The importance of dinner, and an evening in front of the gogglebox, obviously more pressing than the fate of any of the creatures involved. (As a similar accident nearby, last week, demonstrates: such selfish behaviour could have easily increased the situation’s severity.) No-one but the actual driver will have learned anything from the incident. Nothing will be impressed on anyone-else’s tiny minds that could save them from a similar fate.

¶

This is not a post to demonstrate my Good Samaritan status in reacting – from sad experience – calmly, and doing The Right Thing. Nor to thank The Good Lady Bard for putting her life at risk in moving the driver to a safe place: calming them down until the ambulance arrived. We simply, I feel, obeyed our instincts – but I am at a loss as to why we were alone in doing so.

No: this is simply to thank the emergency services for their superb professionalism and care; and to ask – yet again – that people drive within their limits, taking account of conditions; rather than looking no further than the end of their car bonnets; trying to get everywhere in the shortest possible time.

¶

There is plenty of advice and information on the Web about the tragic number of deer-vehicle collisions – as well as what might be done to reduce them:

Warning signs

Signs that warn motorists of high deer-crossing probabilities are the most common approach to reducing deer-vehicle collisions (Putman 1997). Romin and Bissonette (1996) suggested that deer crossing signs may be effective if drivers would reduce their vehicle speed. However, deer crossing signs may not be useful in the long term because warning signs are common for long stretches of road and drivers become complacent unless the warning on the sign is reinforced by actual experience (Putman 1997).

     Lighted, animated deer-crossing warning signs were evaluated in Colorado. Animated deer crossing signs reduced vehicle speed by 3 mph (Pojar et al 1975)…. [They] concluded that motorists observed the animated signs, but their reduction in speed was not enough to affect the crossing per kill ratio.

     Pojar et al (1975) indicated that when motorists were shown that a danger existed, they exhibited a greater response than if they were merely warned of danger by a deer-crossing sign. They evaluated this assumption by placing three dead deer carcasses on the shoulder of the ROW [right-of-way], next to a deer-crossing sign. Vehicle speed was reduced by 7.85 mph after passing the carcasses. The test was quickly discontinued for liability reasons, but the idea that the association of danger with a warning sign produces a pronounced response appears valid.

– Brent J Danielson and Michael W Hubbard: A Literature Review for Assessing the Status of Current Methods of Reducing Deer-Vehicle Collisions

The above review is also summarized well on Wikipedia. And a very throrough round-up of UK statistics can be found here. Additionally, there are useful comments and suggestions on the BBC Autumnwatch The deer rut webpage; as well as on the East Sussex Wildlife Rescue & Ambulance Service (WRAS) website; and, of course, from the RSPCA.

And finally, as well as calling the police, all such collisions should be reported online. Please be careful out there.

Being you is not a crime…

According to police guidance, a hate crime is any criminal offence which is perceived – by the victim or any other person – to be motivated by a hostility or prejudice based on a person’s race, religion, sexuality, disability or gender.

     Hate crimes are targeted and personal, and this makes them different to other offences. Victims are targeted simply because of who they are.

– Dr Loretta Trickett: Nottingham Post

It’s National Hate Crime Awareness Week – and I’ve been struggling, so far, to come up with something pithy to say on the subject. (And I’m still not certain that I’ve succeeded – although, hopefully, after reading this, a few more people will be aware….) Probably because, having been at the receiving end, myself, it’s hard to be dispassionate about an act that blights so many individuals’ lives. (From my perspective, if you’re disabled, you’ve probably got enough undeserved shit to be dealing with already, without others flinging more at you….)

Police recorded crime

In 2014/15, there were 52,528 hate crimes recorded by the police, an increase of 18 per cent compared with the 44,471 hate crimes recorded in 2013/14, of which:

• 42,930 (82%) were race hate crimes;

• 5,597 (11%) were sexual orientation hate crimes;

• 3,254 (6%) were religion hate crimes;

• 2,508 (5%) were disability hate crimes; and

• 605 (1%) were transgender hate crimes.

It is possible for one hate crime offence to have more than one motivating factor which is why the above numbers sum to more than 52,528 and 100 per cent.

– Home Office: Hate Crime, England and Wales, 2014/15

¶

Throughout the week, Warwickshire Police (who I personally found very clued-up, thorough, and immensely helpful) are also blogging on the subject – and their posts are a great introduction to what the offence constitutes; why “Being you is not a crime: Hate crime is”; and why – and how – you should therefore report any incident to the police (whether you believe it to be criminal or not).

There are many misconceptions about what is – and is not – a hate crime. There is also no such thing as a “minor” hate crime, and hate crime is an issue for all of us, which can only be tackled by us all working together.

     Hatred is a strong term that goes beyond simply causing offence or hostility. Hate crime is any criminal offence committed against a person or property that is motivated by an offender’s prejudice or hatred of someone because of their differences.

     There is a misconception that hate crime can only happen to people from minority groups. Whilst it is true that very sadly some members of society are disproportionately more likely to be a victim of a hate crime than others, absolutely anyone can be a victim of a hate crime. We all either have a religion, or do not have a religion (a crime committed against someone because they are atheist is still considered as a religious hate crime for example). So potentially we could all be a victim of a religious hate crime. We all have an ethnicity, so could all be victims of a racial hate crime. And so on.

– Adrian Symonds, West Mercia Police’s Equality and Diversity Advisor for Worcestershire and Herefordshire: There’s no such thing as a minor hate crime

¶

However, on my way into Stratford-upon-Avon, yesterday evening – whilst being threateningly tailgated on the A422 (defined as a “medium-high-risk road” by the Road Safety Foundation) at exactly the 50 mph speed limit – I realized that a lot of such “personal” crimes stem not just from differences between people (we are all unique, of course: something that scares the ignorant; and/or draws despising or patronizing pity from the arrogant), but perceived ‘failures’ to comply with the warped expectations and senseless criteria that govern (if that’s the right word) the lives of the many who would seek to instantly judge us. [By the way: I struggle to separate the two qualities(?!) of ignorance and arrogance – as it seems almost impossible to have the latter without the former.]

So… I should not be upset that the “fool” behind me is breaking the 0.2‑second rule with alacrity (whilst simultaneously failing to communicate his thuggishness with some sort of gittish sign language) – never mind the more sensible and commonly-accepted 2‑second version. Nor that he expects everyone to ‘drive’ like him (or simply get out of his way: which I eventually did, for safety’s sake…) – and waaay beyond the speed limit (a maximum, remember; not a target…). Nor that he obviously knows better than everyone else about the road conditions and concomitant speed suitability, and the handling prowess of his tatty transport. Nor that he then ran a red light at the roadworks at Goldicote (because he couldn’t possibly brake in time…).

In his world – and with his tiny little mind (oops: I nearly wrote another word there – sorry…) – the Highway Code doesn’t (and shouldn’t) apply to him, though. He is superior (as are the majority, of course) to everyone else: in both skill and bloodymindedness. Pity the poor deer that crosses the path of his unlit grey van at dusk – and in rutting season, too… – whose fault it will undoubtedly be (for existing) when they collide, bloodily….

I can’t for the life of me – already ruined by a similar speeding maniac (exactly ten years ago, tomorrow…) – explain, therefore, how I ended up just a couple of vehicles behind him, a few miles later, on Seven Meadows Road…. (Perhaps Aesop can help, here?)

¶

What a sad world we live in, though, where bullying others becomes the norm for some (so many) folk – obviously not helped by this sadistic Government’s leading-by-example… – because those “others” (and it is ‘otherness’ that is crucial, here…) don’t fulfil someone-else’s bizarre, skewed definition of what that “norm” should be….

From where I wobblingly stand, it is these buckoes, though, who are to be commiserated. Their singular lack of empathy must lead to such high contempt from so many (some). “What a wretched existence.”

A tale of two societies…

It sometimes takes a long(ish – only ever “ish”, with my health…) walk to settle my thoughts (and maybe yours, too?): and it was only after pootling around Packwood House’s meandering meadows and tree-lined byways that my feelings crystallized – seeded during time away relearning Dorset and Wiltshire’s delightful wonderments – and I realized how much I missed the place where I once lived; but how little I missed (and how much it stressed me) being connected permanently to the Internet (that is, of course, until I returned to Tysoe and a seemingly infinite queue of unread emails…).

As my friend Duke Senior recently opined – and reported (by email!) – though, whilst I was away on my travels in the land of the hill-fort, barrow and henge:

Dorset. A delightful part of the country, where there are still some old style ways of living, and virtues, to be found among the Hardy-esque rural bliss. Like it or not, we here in the Midlands, albeit as rural oasis in the midst of urban and suburban existence, are not like that. The question is, critically, how to retain the oasis-like qualities, when the historical agricultural foundations are somewhat fragile; and there appears little inclination or potential to foster alternative cottage industries, such as prevalent in Dorset, Somerset, Cornwall, for example. But there are heartening signs of all sorts of activities in the village, including overwhelming support for the Post Office, that suggest there are grounds for hope that something can be fashioned, to avoid this becoming just a commuter village, with retirement homes.

And thus it was good to find myself, as the PO was just opening – a couple of days after I had returned to this “better place” – at the end of a sizeable snake of villagers, wending its way towards the counter, eager to make use of its manifold offerings. As always, familiar faces filled the shop; and both conversation and service were friendly and welcoming. So, as June’s edition of Oxhill News reinforces: “Use it or lose it” (and contact Nadhim whilst you’re at it…)! Oh, and please walk there, if you can….

I only make this request, because, whilst incomprehensible rumours circulate of a third draft of the itself‑confusing (in both process and content) Neighbourhood Plan – which I had believed was on hold, whilst the Parish Council wrestled with it, and perhaps wrested back some form of control (it’s amazing what can happen when you leave the village for a short while…) – as well as a proposed/supposed “Simple English” or “Plain English” version – which makes me wonder what language the ‘official’ rounceval is in…) – there continue to be mutterings of “the risk of urbanization” in quelling the seemingly permanent rush of traffic on our tiny roads; as well as the massive increase of ofttimes dangerous/illegal parking outside the concentration of our public facilities (churches, school, village hall, shop, pub, hairdresser, etc. – including, of course, our threatened Post Office) – and not just at peak times any more.

But I do wonder if, maybe, some form of such controls/constraints are exactly what we need? Do we, as a community, really prioritize appearance and the picturesque above safety and common sense? (Hard to believe, I know, considering the attempted mass-Poundburying – like Bunburying, only different – diktats of the NP.)

For example: why not install a pelican crossing – or, indeed, pelican, crossing – outside Tysoe Children’s Group – where, possibly, the sight of a large, non-native bird with a beak full of fish – accompanied by other exotic fauna, elsewhere – would finally tame our speeding idiots/motorists…? Or even an Ettington-style priority system on entering Middle Tysoe from the Banbury Road, just before you hit (hopefully not literally) Church Farm Court; and/or on the Oxhill Road, before Windmill Way and Sandpits Road?

And I only ask this, because – on my many meanderings, walking stick as essential prop – I all too-frequently espy familiar, local cars parked in the centre of the village, no more than fifteen minutes amble from their points of origin; or ignoring the now freshly-painted road markings. (In Warwickshire dialect, the word ‘slow’, now writ large in several places on our byways in gleaming, titanium white, obviously means the opposite of what my grammar school English teacher beat into me: in the same way that ‘sick’ – I am informed by my backwards-wearing-baseball-capped intimates of a certain youthful disposition – means something is rather what-I-at-a-similar-age-would-simply-have-referred-to-as ‘spiffing’. And we are obviously using some longer parochial measure than the mile for our speed limit signs – a maximum, remember; not a target to be accelerated past as soon as the laws of physics permit….)

Perhaps (just for a change (ahem)) I am being cynical; but I do wonder (and not for the first time, of course) how many of these repeatedly-recognizable vehicles have crawled – or, in many cases, zoomed (watching the guys carefully laying down the new lines in Main Street made me realize how courageous you have to be as a Tysoe pedestrian: even in high-viz habiliments…) – half-a-mile or less, without the objective of travelling any further than the return journey home. And it is noticeable, coming back from the slightly behind-the-times-feeling south-west – although I’m not saying that motorists in Wessex villages are any better behaved (well, maybe slightly; and certainly more polite…) – how driving (and living) does feel considerably calmer away from motorways and major cities. No-one appears to be in the permanent rush that so characterizes the A3400, A422, A429 and the Fosse Way; and driving just at or below the legal limit is no longer punishable by Velcro-like tailgating or insane, risk-taking overtaking on blind bends and summits. Time (and traffic) seems to pass just a tad more slowly and sensibly….

I am sure that, if we really felt the need to install them, there are methods of managing vehicles and their speed which would not make the core of Tysoe resemble the centres of Stratford-upon-Avon, Warwick, Banbury, or Coventry. But I am equally certain that real improvements come from changes to behaviour, rather than systems.

As the World War II poster (and the motoring organizations, when there’s a light dusting of infrequent snow) asks: “Is your journey really necessary?” And, if it is, can you do it on foot (as I politely requested earlier); or by bicycle or bus – or even on the hoof…? And, finally, can you also do it calmly, and within the law? If not, perhaps you also need a vacation away from traffic both digital and mechanical…. I can highly recommend it….

Never ascribe to malice…

In my long, varied, and deep experience, I have discovered that there are mainly two reasons for incompetence in any professional arena: namely, stupidity and greed. And they are not mutually exclusive: as is proven by the multi-storey car park developed (seemingly in haste – both from its makeshift appearance and its stunning lack of fitness for purpose (see below)) for the new Stratford Hospital – itself designed, apparently, to look like an ill-fitting conglomeration of partly-opened kitchen cabinets. If the Government is as keen to both commoditize (and subcontract) healthcare and create workhouse-like factories for the poorly-paid – especially those in the public sector – as I believe: then such architecture (and I use the term extremely loosely for something that has obviously been created by computerized machines with oversized egos, and no concept of the friendliness of the curved surface) will be a perfect environment (if not epitaph) for their joint demise.

According to Collins: “If you describe someone as incompetent, you are criticizing them because they cannot do their job or a task properly.” And, in my case, they are dead on. Doing a “job or a task” successfully does not – however right-wing your ethos – simply mean raking in money, or bringing a project in on time and budget. To function well, any facility must surely revolve around its users and their needs. But as George Osborne proved so adroitly, yesterday, such idealism, such ideology, such idiocy, is to ignore the slimy, hand-staining lure of profit. In this modern world of corporate scrounging and £93bn handshakes, the needs of the few (giant corporations) outweigh the needs of the many (little people) – as my hero Mr Spock would obviously never have said.

¶

When the “phenomenon of our times” Owen Jones wrote, in his “phenomenal bestseller” The Establishment: And how they get away with it, that the “great carve-up of the NHS is a threat to the health and even the lives of patients”, I’m pretty sure he wasn’t thinking specifically about the bent-over-double pensioner who took around thirty minutes to exit the labyrinthine travesty that HUBER Car Park Systems – whose slogan, “HUBER guarantees long-term, efficient and profitable use”, says all you need to know about why they were hired – describe as “Project Stratford-upon-Avon”:

Huber has constructed a 250 bays public car park facility for the Warwick NHS Trust in Stratford-upon-Avon. The car park forms a first part of a wider development in Stratford hospital; the steel structure is timber cladded and is serviced by two staircases and two lifts. The project is the first to receive the bespoke HUBER LED fittings with advanced controllers which provide low operational costs without increasing the installation times and costs.

Nowhere can I find an explanation (or boast) of how their “system” (however unsystematic in practice) benefits its actual users: with its overly-complex, indecipherable, automated ticketing machines; its narrow lanes – meaning that cars (especially the archetypal Warwickshire behemoths) cannot pass each other without great difficulty; and that all the multitudinous sharp corners must be taken (slowly) only in the few magical moments when there are no oncoming vehicles. It’s as if they have turned best-practice on its head to squeeze in as little investment, capacity and practicality as possible. (That’s why only 2% of the spaces are Disabled bays, of course.) For a service that deals almost exclusively in humans (you know what I mean: those soft, squidgy moving objects…) who are damaged in some manner, it seems to me that HUBER (and those who hired them) have deliberately gone out of the way to engineer an increase in the number of casualties entering the hospital: injured in the inevitable physical clash of SUV bumpers (with each other, as well as with disoriented stragglers); or mentally weakened by the tortuous, unmanned (ta-da: no fallacious living wages to supply!) payment gadgetry.

Were it not for the burly, hard-hatted, high-viz-jacketed saint who just happened to be passing by, I fear that the old gentleman, in obvious pain, and confused beyond belief (but ignored by those many hurrying folks besuited and lanyarded with NHS ribbons and tags), would still now be leaning on his stick, and the boot of his car, breathless: wondering both how he was going to shuffle across the incessant traffic entering, leaving, and almost-colliding; and then operate the Terminator-redux towering over his tiny, distorted frame. I admit that I was no help, either: as I too was befuddled and angered by the difficulties we were both having merely in attending for supposed healthcare.

¶

According to the Hospital’s own website:

There are exciting plans to build a new state of the art hospital in the centre of Stratford. The first phase will provide first class Cancer [sic] and eye services for local residents of Stratford and surrounding districts. Without these services near to home, patients previously had to travel long, tiring distances to other facilities which are further afield to receive treatment. In some cases cancer patients decided to go without their treatment as they were unable to travel long distances every day, when they may already be feeling weak from treatments.

It also says, under “Creating a pleasant environment”:

We understand that a visit to hospital can be a challenging experience. We want to ease this and help our patients and their relatives feel as comfortable as possible during their time with us. Our aim is to use charitable funds to create a homely and less institutionalised environment for the people that use our services. Research has shown that the environment in which a patient is treated can have an impact upon the healthcare outcomes. By developing a space that is theraputic [sic] and supportive of family involvement we will be able to reduce anxiety and stress, something that can aid recovery.

Which I can counter with only one word (and which The Good Lady Bard will tell you is my favourite and most-uttered) – bollocks. It is all well and good to spout such badly-crafted homilies; but it takes more than a jobbing copy- or speech-writer to turn them into customer-oriented, user-friendly reality.

Now, patients have “to travel long, tiring distances” simply to pay for their car-parking – which is only not free for the disabled because that would need the attendance of a costly human-being to monitor. And there is no doubt in my mind that “the environment”, as it stands – with its large ladling-out of “anxiety and stress” (which, of course, retards recovery (oops)) – can only have a majorly negative “impact upon the healthcare outcomes” of anyone trying to arrive under their own power. I would not be surprised if, as a result, there was soon a further increase in patients deciding “to go without their treatment”. Personally, I would rather drive all the way to Warwick or Oxford, than have to go through the struggles I and my disabled colleague endured yesterday.

¶

There is one drop of comfort in all this. According to the architects:

The new hospital… will include a new… energy centre and public realm as part of the strategic masterplan.

I would like to nominate myself to be the first leader of this new “public realm”, please (having first received some much-needed “energy”…)! And, if ruling it necessitates gratuitous violence (as I hope), Game of Thrones-style, then I would also like to nominate the car-park designers as my first victims. My weapon of choice will, of course, be a carbon-fibre-shafted walking stick, wielded brutally from my large Japanese war-chariot. There will be blood.

Horde of the Dings: a Highway Code for pedestrians…?

The usual rights and privileges of citizenship do not apply here… a great wall surrounds this place, and most of what goes on within the wall is unknown to those outside it. What follows is a message from over the wall.

– Hugh Gregory Gallagher: By Trust Betrayed: Patients, Physicians and the License to Kill in the Third Reich

Last year, I mugged up intensively on the Highway Code – there’s an app for it, as well, you know… – as part of taking an advanced driving course; and, although pedestrians do feature in it (although I doubt any have read it who have not also learned to drive), I sometimes – as a partially deaf human-being with a stick: who seems to find himself a moving obstacle (an impediment; a stumbling-block; a remora), as far as many apparently abled-bodied people are concerned (especially in busy places, such as supermarkets) – wish there were similar codified guidance (requiring a thorough, probing examination, before you’re allowed out in public without having to wear a bright-flashing light on your head – which is then reinstituted, when you’ve committed several offences, and gained too many points on your ‘walking licence’…) for those of an ambulatory nature.

Sorry: that was a very long sentence – packed with clauses and sub-clauses (and parentheses) – so feel free to go and put the kettle on (or fire up your De’Longhi coffee machine, if you’re that way inclined…) whilst you re-read it!

Are you sitting comfortably? Then let me begin.

One of the key recommendations in the pedestrian-related bit of the existing Highway Code states that you should “Always show due care and consideration for others…” – and it’s this that I wish to expand on.

“You say the ring is dangerous, far more dangerous than I guess. In what way?”

     “In many ways,” answered the wizard. “It is far more powerful than I ever dared to think at first, so powerful that in the end it would utterly overcome anyone of mortal race who possessed it. It would possess him.”

– JRR Tolkien: The Lord of the Rings: The Fellowship of the Ring

Somehow, instead of having to wear magical jewellery on my hand, all I need to do to become invisible to other pedestrians is have my walking stick in my hand, and be doing my habitual impersonation of a slightly inebriated penguin. Suddenly, people – who, in all likelihood, have just reflexively given way to their peers – cannot see me, and (therefore?) do not move aside.

The sight of damage, of something gone wrong, induces an excited disturbance in such onlookers. Sometimes there is a turning away, a fear and a hostility, a sometimes spoken wish that such sights should be hidden from public view; there is a fear of catching the damage….

– Valerie Sinason: Mental Handicap and the Human Condition

In fact, I have to agree with my eighty-odd-year-old mum – who uses a crutch – and say that it’s difficult not to become convinced that people are deliberately blocking your path: as they avoid eye-contact at all costs, and just plough on in your direction. How a disabled person who walks painfully (and obviously, to others, painfully slowly…) is swiftly meant to manoeuvre out of the way – or ‘Disapparate’ (although the only “distinctive cracking or popping sound” is likely to be my spine or splintering walking stick) – is beyond me; but it seems to be part of the unwritten constitution of society (that I, as an enfeebled outlier, have not been instructed in): especially as embodied in the routine institutional prejudice doled out to those who are ‘different’ (whether through gender, race, class, or capacity).

After my recent disability hate crime run-in (‘limp-in’?) – which is now under official Police investigation: so I will (and can) not say much more – perhaps, you may think, I have become a tad paranoid. But I actually started drafting this post a year or so ago: and I have found little, in the intervening time, that does anything but confirm my suspicions.

I consider ‘Stratford-upon-Heaven’ my home town: but, when it is busy, and filled with people soaking up the sun (I will not blame the tourists: all are equally liable, it seems…), it is more akin to Stratford-upon-Hell; and a part of me starts to meretriciously envy those in mobility scooters who appear to see no harm (revenge, perhaps?) in scything their way up Bridge Street, with metaphorical blades attached, Boudica-style, to the hubs of their wheels. How I wish I were Moses, able to part the throng for an easy passage. But it is not to be.

But why is it so? Is it really “prejudice”; discrimination; a lack of tolerance? It would seem – sadly – that it is: that disability, invisibility, mobility, incivility and hostility all combine (egged on by the Government’s élitist ‘scrounger’ propaganda and deep-seated, well-fuelled hate) to form an obstacle course, in turn, for those who wend their way through life either on a divergent, less-taken path; or are themselves out of the ordinary, anomalous: ripe, tasty cheeses amid the insipid crumbling chalk of society.

But, then, even amongst what you might assume is the solidarity of the ‘differently abled’, there are stratas of distinction and dispute – and the following tale of abuse echoes my own frequent, repetitive experiences (not that I would claim to “look good” or “be under the age of 45” – not quite…):

I am shocked and disappointed that people have shouted at me for parking in a disabled bay when I have a valid badge, walk with a stick, stopping frequently because of pain, or I’m in my wheelchair. So why would people have something to say you may ask? Because I make the effort to look good! Yes, that’s correct, you can’t look half decent, be under the age of 45 and be disabled, apparently! It seems that without me even being out of the car people have made an assumption and feel they have the right to voice their opinion to me in whatever way they feel. Astonishing! Apparently I don’t really look (face wise) disabled!

– S Howell: Disabled Motoring UK (May 2015)

When you are not safe amongst your own kind, then the only lesson I feel I can learn from all this (I’m a very slow study (as well as walker)), and the less-than-pitiful regard that my infirmity provokes (rather than the sympathy – and empathy – I had gullibly, initially expected), is that everyone (else) feels themselves superior to – and more deserving than – those they should know themselves to be – in reality – merely equal to; that there are both real and perceived hierarchies in every aspect of our lives. As a cripple, I am the lowest of the low; and should know my place. I contribute nothing; but take everything. I deserve no better.

The targeting of disabled people has happened while society has looked the other way. Disability hate crime was the invisible crime that people looked straight through because they could not recognise it for what it was. Now it is coming into focus, and we can ignore it no longer.

     Because the crime is, at the same time, both ancient and modern, it has been difficult for us to accept that it exists. Disabled people have been maliciously stereotyped for centuries. This has meant that they have never been accepted as equal citizens even when such equality is enshrined in law. So when they are attacked, they are seen, on some level, as ‘fair game’ or as ‘asking for it’ – and many disabled people, tragically, even internalise those feelings.

     Despite all the best intentions of the disability rights movement, disabled citizens are mostly not seen as ordinary people wanting to live ordinary lives.

– Katharine Quarmby: Scapegoat: How We Are Failing Disabled People

¶

What is therefore required is not “a Highway Code for pedestrians” as I originally posited: but just plain, common or garden civility and mutual respect – that “due care and consideration for others…” – and everywhere… not just on our streets.

However (he said, cynically), altruism and empathy – especially in this arena – have been so browbeaten out of us, that Tamworths will sprout feathers before this happens. Life is nasty, brutish and short: and, it seems, so are many of those living it. More pity them. I am not willing to be subsumed by such passive, malevolent tosh, though: and so, tomorrow, walking wobbly, and leaning on a big stick, I will venture out into the world again: forearmed… and three-legged…. Wizard!

You cannot pass…. I am a servant of the Secret Fire, wielder of the flame of Anor. You cannot pass. The dark fire will not avail you, flame of Udûn. Go back to the Shadow! You cannot pass.

Nearer, my god, to thee…

I’m making a lot of assumptions here – mainly because I was born with a brain between my ears (which I still, sometimes, make use of): and therefore do not understand (or grok) what it is to drive without a considerable amount of thought and concentration. (Mind you, in a similar, ahem, vein: you could say that I was also born with a heart behind my sternum: and therefore do not understand what it is to vote Conservative….)

My point of view – and possibly rampant, creative imagination – though, leads me to believe that I have just witnessed the following sequence of events (not for the first time; and certainly not for the last) –

1. I am driving down the A422, at just under the speed limit – as there is a tractor, roughly a quarter of a mile ahead; and then there are several bends and junctions to be navigated. On the back window of my car, at eye level, is a blue sticker (in the all-familiar Pantone D154873D, in fact), with the words “DISABLED DRIVER” printed on it in white.
2. Approaching rapidly from behind me (and it is school chucking-out time; and murky), without any form of illumination – maybe the driver does not know where his/her headlight switch is? – at approximately twenty miles per hour over the speed limit – is another vehicle: which proceeds to accelerate to within a few yards of the rear of my vehicle. It then brakes very hard (so that the bonnet dips very noticeably; and then wobbles back up).
3. I therefore begin to lose even more speed – albeit without, yet, resorting to the brake pedal (which may result in panic: and is therefore a final, er, resort) – which leads to the driver behind me (in full nose-picking, phone-holding, chocolate-eating glory – I think he (in this case) might be driving with some other appendage…) appearing at very close quarters in my internal rearview mirror. (This one is young; and in a car with ridiculous tyres and suspension (I see, later). But morons come in all ages, sizes, and sexes; and all ages and sizes of car, too.)
4. By this time, we are gaining on the tractor at some speed, even though I am still decelerating, and my right foot is hovering above the brake pedal. (By the way, the tractor – with a large trailer attached – is extremely well lit: including flashing orange beacons on top – which must, even in this gloom, be visible for miles.)
5. The driver behind me makes several rude gestures (albeit still picking, holding, and eating). Impressive, I think. And I then dab the brake pedal very gently: as we are now within about fifty yards of said tractor/trailer-combo. This results in more gesticulating; and – aha: he’s found a light switch! – flashing of headlamps (which I have to intuit, at first: as I cannot see below the bottom of his windscreen in my interior rearview mirror – however, I can see at least half of his grille in my offside mirror: as he is veering all over the central white line – which is now solid, on our side of the road). What he is using to operate the steering with, I do not know. He is sitting very low and flat, though. Perhaps his seat has collapsed?
6. Just as the tractor indicates left – and just before a blind left-hand bend – the driver behind me swerves out into the path of an oncoming Land Rover (decked in speckled and striped sticky-back plastic: so obviously going back to Gaydon). I close my eyes; remember I’m an atheist; but pray to God, anyway. I do not want to be a victim of dangerous driving for the fourth time. Neither do I want another six-hour-long operation on my neck. Nor to be paralysed, permanently, this time.
7. I come to a steady, controlled halt.
8. This time, the prat behind me was extremely lucky. (Perhaps there is a god of idiots; or of dangerous drivers? (Onan?)) The test vehicle from JLR had seen what was happening; and had slowed down enough, and made room enough, to let him through – now disappearing at some knots in a cloud of blue exhaust smoke. (“You may want to have your oil seals looked at – or your head gasket,” I think: my heart beating faster than Anastasia in Fifty Shades of Grey. (So I am told.)) A few weeks ago, one of his brethren ended up in a ditch, in front of a large lorry. Sorry to report, both I and the lorry driver were laughing, as we shuddered to a halt (mostly from relief, I think).

Now, that was how I experienced it. This is how I think the driver behind me saw it –

1. Ooh. Red car. Like red cars. Not going fast. How fast?
2. Ooh. Disabled sticker. This chocolate tastes nice with snot. Is Fred there? Tell him I’m on my way.
3. Cripples can’t drive fast. Must get past. Speeeeeeed.
4. I wonder where that orange flashing’s coming from. Mmm, chocolate.
5. Go faster, you cripple. Mmm, snot.
6. Aw sod it. Must go fast. Effing scrounger. Put foot down. Powwwweeeeeeer.
7. What was that speckly-stripey thing?
8. Faster.
9. What’s that smoke?
10. Must go faster. Oh, hello, Fred. Going to be a bit late, got stuck behind an effing cripple.
11. 90 mph. Wow. Clever boy I am.
12. Where is that smoke coming from? Funny smell. Blue. Cool colour.

Now, on a day when it was announced that several vehicles had been clocked driving at more than twice the national speed limit, last year, my questions are these –

1. When was the disabled-only speed limit introduced; and why did no-one tell me about it?
2. Am I the victim of idiocy (which now seems to be the norm with regards to speed – especially on the A422, and surrounding lanes), or discrimination? (I have the sticker on my car so that people leave me room, when I park – I have a similar one on the driver’s door: as I need a lot of room to get out… – not so that I can be targeted in supposed ‘games’ of dangerous driving. To be honest, people drove the same way when I didn’t have the stickers, though.)
3. What are you supposed to do when being tailgated at or near the speed limit? (Having recently taken an advanced driving course with the Institute of Advanced Motorists, I don’t think there is consensus on this: although advice is to slow down, and let them pass. Some ‘people’ seem to enjoy it, though: so will tailgate you at any speed.)
4. When did speed limits become targets to be surpassed (like Jobcentre Plus sanctions), rather than maxima?
5. Have you ever considered that it is you going too fast; and not the driver in front going too slow?
6. Do you know what the ‘two second rule’ is? And who breaks it?
7. Do you know what is in front of the car in front of you; or behind you? What do you mean: “What tractor?”
8. Do you know what the current speed limit is?
9. When was the last time you read the Highway Code?
10. Do you think this is funny?
11. Do you suffer from motor accident-related PTSD?
12. How much do second-hand tanks cost; and what’s their fuel economy like? What sort of licence do you need to drive them on a public highway; and will they fit in a disabled bay?
13. As I assume my readership is of above average intelligence (in the way that all drivers – like me – are above average quality), will I ever learn the answers to all these questions?