WheelchairAdventures

Monday morning. Staring out the window, I thought “It’s not that bad out there.” And then I remembered: it’s hot. Not just "nice weather" hot — it’s "sweaty in places you didn’t know could sweat" hot.

But I had to go to the chemist. Because of course I did.

Now, a trip to the chemist isn’t a charming little jaunt through town. No, it’s a full-blown episode of chaos, like being dropped into a live-action version of a supermarket sweep hosted by Satan. I sighed, gritted my teeth, and retrieved the “Trolley of Doom” from the back of the van — my noble steed for the day. By steed, I mean the three-wheeled scooter of questionable engineering and malevolent intent.

I trundled along from the car park into town, trying not to run over children or pensioners, and that’s when it happened: the dreaded squeaky wheel. The kind of squeak that turns heads and makes dogs bark. I was now the main attraction in this circus.

Stopped in a shop. Bought a hat. Why? Who knows. A Bart Simpson brain-fart moment, probably. Sat down. Wanted to go back. But no — the mission had only just begun.

Scooter Olympics: Downhill Edition Then it happened. The scooter hit the steep part of town. The brakes? Decorative. I went full Bond villain escape mode, teetering on two wheels, praying to every minor deity I could think of. Somehow avoided launching myself into oncoming traffic — gold star for me.

After regaining what’s left of my composure and dignity, I attempted to return to the van. Easy, right? Wrong.

At the bottom of the hill, my scooter did a dramatic “Nope” and refused to climb back up. Wheel spin. No traction. I was now the proud pilot of a large, expensive, stuck plastic tricycle. Put my full weight over the front to force traction. Eventually made it. No applause.

Still Waiting for My Ticket to Freedom Six months I’ve been waiting for a new electric wheelchair. Six. I might as well carve days into the wall at this point. The current beast I’m riding is like a vengeful mobility ghost. I do own another chair — but replacing the battery costs roughly the same as a small car. Conveniently, no one tells you these things until you’re already deep in the system.

I just want a Q100. Nothing fancy. Simple. Effective. But no — I’ll probably be given another oversized monstrosity that corners like a barge and eats doorframes for fun.

Bonus Round: The Curse of the Mower Got home. Sat down. Exhaled.

Then I looked at the garden.

The lawnmower is dead. Not used, not abused, just dead. It’s just there, glaring at me like a green-flecked tombstone. So now we need a new one. Again.

Me? I vote for artificial grass. No mowing, no weed-whacking, no broken machinery. No soul either, but I can live with that.

And the kicker? It’s only midday.

My speech-to-text software has also decided to have an existential crisis — typing gibberish like it’s been drinking all morning.

looking to buy a second hand q100 wheelcair or similar in the devon cornwall area as mine has gone completely to the breakers yard in the sky ... many thanks sick@mylivinghell.co.uk

         “The views in this post are based on my personal  
          experience. I do not intend harm, only honesty.”  

             “By ink and breath and sacred rage, I write.
                      By storm and silence, I survive.”

Good afternoon, dear reader. Or morning. Or night. Honestly, I’ve no clue what time it is anymore — linear time is so last century. Especially when you're navigating life with a brain that takes more detours than a lost postman.

So there I was, lost. Not just in the existential, "why are we here" sense — although, yes, that too — but literally lost. On a street I’d supposedly lived on. Only yards from home, yet absolutely no idea where I was. Classic me. Classic MS. Brain fog? No, more like brain Swamp of Sadness. I was a knight on a scooter, aimlessly gliding through the suburban void like some sort of Tesco-bagged Mad Max.

I don’t remember much about those old houses anymore. I’ve had more addresses than MI6. Just vague shadows of places I might have haunted. Faces and memories lost in the thick soup of neurological nonsense. But that’s fine. Who needs memory when you've got spellcheck and sarcasm?

Let me introduce you to Mr. Dark, or Warlock — my MS. Yes, I’ve named him. Because when a condition lives rent-free in your body, you may as well give it a proper British title. Warlock is that mysterious, moody flatmate who always steals your energy, ruins your coordination, and never picks up after himself. But hey, sometimes he puts on a show. A full-blown, outrageously bizarre cabaret of collapsing limbs, surreal thoughts, and a healthy disregard for social norms. Top entertainment from the abyss.

The thing is, somewhere in all this, I stopped giving a toss about what people thought. I know, shocking, right? I’m intelligent — properly intelligent — just not in the “tick these boxes and say please” kind of way. The real tragedy? Most of you lot just didn’t know which buttons to press. Pity. Could’ve been glorious.

And then there's the current saga: my wheelchair’s knackered. So I'm stuck using this three-wheeled scooter of doom. It’s meant to be a mobility aid but functions more like a mechanical prank sent by Satan. Nearly tossed me under a bus the other day. Cheers, Warlock. Nothing like flirting with death at 8mph while dodging potholes and judgmental pedestrians.

Honestly, I find it funny. You have to. Either you laugh or you scream, and I’ve screamed enough into the void to know it doesn’t echo back.

So here I am. A sarcastic wizard on wheels, battling gravity, memory, and the absurdity of existence. Is this real? Is this fake? Fracked if I know. I gave up on the Earth-plane’s opinion years ago.

Stay tuned for next week, when I try to open a tin of soup without summoning a demon.

Cheerio. 🖤

looking to buy a second hand q100 wheelcair or similar in the devon cornwall area as mine has gone completely to the breakers yard in the sky. sick@mylivinghell.co.uk

       “The views in this post are based on my personal  
          experience. I do not intend harm, only honesty.”

“Many years ago, I was sitting in my wheelchair, minding my own business, when some prat decided to stare at me as though I were some sort of sideshow attraction. I wasn’t in the mood to feed the animals, so I ignored him. But, of course, he carried on, relentless as ever. So, I finally decided to turn my manual wheelchair to face him—no small feat, mind you, as it required the sort of effort usually reserved for a gym session. Anyway, long story short, I eventually upgraded to an electric wheelchair—supposedly the height of luxury. But let’s be honest: it was absolute rubbish. It ended up in wheelchair heaven, alongside all the other overpriced tin cans I’ve wasted money on over the years. They brag about a 20-mile range—utter nonsense. Three miles if you’re feeling optimistic. And as for the handling? Let’s just say there were a few moments that nearly saw me flattened by clueless drivers. Good fun, really. Still, I do try to be polite—sometimes even managing a half-hearted smile if I’m feeling generous. Mind you, my brain’s always off on some tangent—‘that’s just my head for you’, as they say. Anyway, I finally rolled over to this bloke and asked, ever so nicely, ‘Do we have a problem here?’ He started spouting off—language not fit for polite conversation—and I stayed calm as you like. Little did he know, I’m no delicate flower. Yes, I’ve got multiple sclerosis, but I’ve also got a wicked laugh and a tendency to surprise. So, I stood up to my full height, took off my shirt (why not, eh?), and said, ‘Let’s have it then.’ He legged it like a startled rabbit. I laughed so hard I nearly fell back into my chair. My balance wasn’t great back then—worse now, if I’m honest. So, that’s that. A little detour in memory lane, with a nod to my mates Warlock Stumuzz and the crew—those were the days. Happy times, even if the wheelchairs were rubbish.” looking out for a cheap 2hand q100 wheelchair sick@mylivinghell.co.uk

         “The views in this post are based on my personal  
          experience. I do not intend harm, only honesty.”