As of today I find myself in the same situation as so many of my age and occupation: back home with the wrinklies. “The Wrinklies” being a term of endearment; I love my parents. Of course this is not merely a change of co-habitués, it also means the change from busy, bustling Dublin to quiet Kerry, a complete change of social group, the loss of a room in my name and in m
y case the loss of a boyfriend, at least in the physical sense; he lives in Carlow, I live in Kerry, but for 9 months of the year we both live in DCU. As you can probably tell, I was happy where I was. I wouldn’t go as far as to say I wasn’t looking forward to coming home; it certainly has its advantages, but I was snug as a bug in a rug; one might say.
“Pissy nickers’. That’s EXACTLY what I want to see after a day’s being stared at, left on my own, having to ask for everything and moving the weight of my body, a wheechair and sometimes heavy doors with my arms.”
This was my thought when I entered the disabled toilet in the women’s bathrooms upstairs in the hub to see ‘Pissy nickers’ written in black marker on the back cushion of the toilet. I couldn’t believe someone could have that kind of insensitivity. But then again by the time I got in there I was panting, having had to literally just push and push the wheels of my wheelchair with brute force until it eventually opened, while people messed on the couches right behind me. Yup, that’s right: I sat in a wheelchair and spent about a minute pushing the door and not one of them helped me. This was also after searching the Henry Grattan for a