A difficult tale.

Wunsaponatyme…there was a grown up lady who lived in a house full of smashed up mirrors.
Now that was really sad, as before she’d lived there, she’d already had enough mirrors smashed, without having to live in a house enduring more smashing. She had plenty needing mended without this onslaught of slivered glass. Some of the mirrors were into such tiny pieces – it was like a shower of splintered ice across the hall carpet. Some would say that was even dangerous.

One day, she told a friend about the mirrors. How can I know who I am if I cannot see my own reflection?

The friend, who was very wise, and deserved a National Award for friendship, amongst many other friends, put her arm around the lady, and wept. She too had noticed the broken mirrors. How would her friend survive? The tears of the two friends were like a large bandage, but they did not stop the mirrors breaking.

Then one day, a wind swept through the hall, and the lady was punched, hard in the solar plexus, pushing a black hole into her. This was worse than the glass. It ended her heart. Almost.

Too long the wind rattled through the hole – and too long the glass remained unswept, until at last, a large hand opened the front door and shouted – leave. Now.

Right down the middle, the lady was crushed, and yet she had to leave. She cried for the wind, for the wind was very stupid to have caused so much damage, when the lady was made of silk and song and child and womb and beautiful patterns, and it parted the marrow from her bones to know the wind would never understand it’s idiotic power, and how to release it’s energy into good.

Leaving a vortex is not easy, even when the vortex is empty and vile.

She was swept up into calm, but not for a long time. Splinters hurt her feet – she walked the crooked dance of one who does not have all the answers yet.

Deep in the woods, another mirror waits. A straight mirror, large and strong, and even a bit fancy, with filigree around the edges, just because the lady liked beautiful patterns. A sturdy mirror. She glances at it, wary of its sturdiness.

The forest is a kind place. Bears sleep under the trees, biding their time, aware that this time the mirror may be quite the right size for the lady, who looks now into its centre, aware of shards of splinters melting in the soles of her feet.

Excuse me, I'm reacting.

When I was a little girl, I adored eating plasters.

What? Shouts everyone who knows me, But she's allergic.

Precisely. The smell and taste of that resiny stickiness to me - oh man, I can remember it so well.

If it weren't so russian roulette - I'd chew one now. I mean I adore it - that piney medicinal smell. If there is a pine tree - I want to bury my head in it. It doesn't matter logically when I get near. It even doesn't put me off when I start to feel very sick. (So I tell myself - Cover your mouth and nose now, and walk away from the hypnotic tree. See, and you thought you were the weirdo). The addictive quality of an allergen is just one of those, do your genes always want you to survive and be the fittest - it'd make more sense to hate an enemy full stop.

Right, moving on to my next point - yep, allergies and dating. Is there any easy/romantic/ho ho ho look how suggestive I am way to say to someone you fancy - actually your shower gel could potentially make me throw up. Lime, to be precise - and it took me a while to identify what it was, and no matter how much I liked the smell, it did not have a good effect on me.

Yes, on the other side, apparently asking someone to change their toiletries is well, not a hard thing.

But, it leads me onto a wee experiment I would love to test. See, one of the first signs I have when I have started to REALLY react to an allergen is this - I suddenly realise everyone in the room is annoying me so, so, so, so much. I have seen me shout, cry, and garble nonsense in this state, until I go - oh right, going to spew now, guess I should get on with that bit, leave the dramatic mood swing till later.

Now, what if you were able to identify and correlate that and somehow prevent arguements induced by the first stages of allergy.

What, what is that - yes, it's Relate phoning me to thank me for my idea - as it would cut down on their workload.

Man, that was another brilliant idea that just sounds a bit, oh, I don't know what on paper.

Like I was crazy or something.

Health and Safety

Well, this week I got a letter from Childline (the back up plan for if respite cannot happen), and here is an interesting dilemma!

Ok, I cannot volunteer there because they cannot take people who are unable to come down 5 flights of stairs, as in a fire they would be a health and safety risk.

Now, which is this - a health and safety issue I should concede to - or is it discrimination? Imagine if that led to me not being able to work in lots and lots of places, because they were on the 5th floor? What is the limit - is it you can only work in jobs where you can be on the ground floor?

Throughout the day, interesting conversations took place. The deputy at the pixie club coincidentally decided that we would do a fire drill. It's not a situation I've worried about too much at work, as when the adrenaline kicks in, I could get me and the pixies out, and it's all ground floor. Stairs have been the lifetime nemesis. I have always had difficulty going down them - way more than up. It feels like my brain is trying to refocus when I am doing it. Is it my wobbly leg syndrome? Is it my inability to do sequential activities quickly syndrome? Is it a lack of depth perception (how do you test for that then?)

At the end of the fire drill, a 5 yr old pixie plaintively asked the deputy what would happen if I (that is me, Miss Fairy Sparkle), could not get out and I got burnt to death? (Not because I'm disabled, just a what if question).

(Yeah, that puts a heavy perspective on it, when a 5 yr old asks with big eyes).

Not a problem, says the deputy, that would never happen - she would bodily carry me out.

And this was AFTER her appraisal.

Later, a close friend and I were discussing the matter, and he said, he would look up the law for me on discrimination, what with him having studied law, but um, yes, he would find it hard the thought of me being somewhere I couldn't get out easily.

Not once has he ever seen from me anything other than the slowest and most awkward looking descending action on the stairs. Bit of a hard symptom to hide/abnormality/freakery/boring to watch one that.

Then later, my close friend's mum who is a home help, spoke about how she has been told in a fire, just to leave her clients in the house, get herself out and that's that.

Reader, I am stumped. If I was able to write a disclaimer saying that I was ok with taking the risk, and would hold no one responsible for my crispy demise, well why couldn't I do that? How are all the many other disabled people to work if this is a 'get out' clause? If there was a lift they could still say nope to me, because well, you're only to go down stairs in a fire. So, beyond raising Scotland to the ground and starting again, tricky one, on the old access front.

However - is that a fair action? I know what it takes to make some tough health and safety decisions - and people might argue they would feel guilty letting you risk your life like that. Now, this is where living in Glasgow, puts this into sharper focus - this is the land of tenements and high rises, and dodgy lifts is it not? If I want to be really safe - best not visit any friends any more ever again.

When you have been homeless, and you get offered unsuitable accommodation but hey-ho at least it's not up flights of stairs you might not manage - well that's all right then.

As a single person - that disclaimer would be signed in a jiffy. If I were partnered, well, I would consider hard to be honest. No matter which way I look at it - 5 flights of stairs really is the best way to demonstrate - yep, my leg's are crap, and I should have got a refund at birth : ) (Yes that was also a CONTROVERSIAL thing to say).

Or have I just been on the dishing out end of health and safety for too long?

Dating

A good excuse to wash