The past is a foreign country called Britain.

I don’t know if I’d be a very nice person if I had a disability...

I think I'd become curmudgeonly. Barking orders and waving my stick or crutch around in a wild and erratic manner in the hopes of unbalancing some able-bodied lithe limbs. I might go mean and enjoy attempting to stamp on my carer’s toes with my walker as they trot alongside me - a senile one-sided game of schoolyard stomp (as happened when a particularly deranged old bat took an intense dislike to my haircut circa 2011). I’d probably drive my mobility cart ‘accidentally’ into the knees or ankles of unsuspecting bystanders, with a "Whoops, whaddam-I-like?” Or look particularly gormless and sloppy mouthed when curious eyes strayed my way, just to weird them out.

The world is not designed for the differently abled and it must be fecking infuriating! You only have to break an ankle (age 21, while walking down 3 steps while holding a clutch full of cane and cokes) to understand how hard it is to make and enjoy a cup of tea on crutches. "Ooh I’ll make a nice cuppa and take it over to the couch," you think to yourself - the feck you will! You’ll enjoy that scalding beverage staring at your kitchen cupboards or interogating the quality of your tile grout.

I’ve recently rejoined the world of caring and find myself in Britain after a 10 year hiatus in advertising. It's a strange thing to be back in a life you lived in your 20s, but now in your 40s i.e. of no fixed abode and living out of a suitcase. In my new, old life I find myself looking after someone with mobility issues brought on by a brain tumour.

While my new charge can walk, it’s bloody hard work - a constant battle of mind over matter, of willing the renegade half of the body to comply. Each step comes with a reminder uttered under the breath to "engage the glute, soften the knee, straighten the hand." All while scanning the pathway for obstacles cos lemme tell you the Brits love an uneven surface, all those heritage buildings and split level living.

Not only are the surfaces different levels but different textures - have you ever stared at a heavily patterned carpet for too long? It's like boarding the Yellow Submarine - all the hallucination and eye floaters, less of the high. Now imagine that everytime you need to walk down the corridor, all the while quelling the coup the non-compliant part of your body attempts at every opportunity. If your strong side takes over too much you suddenly discover you’re no longer an ambi-turner - like Zoolander trapped on the runway you can only turn one way, spinning in ever diminishing circles until you’re stuck facing a wall. (A true story where Milady found herself inexplicably facing a wall while trying to turn to give her aged father a hug. The father, himself on crutches, turned to her sisters and said, "What's wrong with her? Why is she facing the wall? She's a bit unstable isn't she?").

A non-compliant body part is a level of frustration I can only imagine. Every single step is an involuntary pilgrimage of patience. I like to think I’m strong, but facing the world with a disability AND a smile?! Madness.

Me, I’d choose violence, brandishing my trident-pronged mobility aid with an "Out my way you tit-shit-wobble-knobbed-walker!"