Blonde's Eye View: Wedged in Pooh Station
Angela Clarke would like a hand please
Occasionally, due to a health condition, I have to use a walking stick.
When the planets have been on a bender and have aligned to moon me, the use of the walking stick coincides with the need to travel with luggage.
Ha, ha, astral planets/Lady Luck/crop circle dudes/whatevs. Thanks a sodding lot.
One such clash of ill-fates saw me recently struggle through a London station, stick in one hand and unwieldy wheelie case in the other. The staff were not terribly helpful.
The two uniformed bods I implored to give me a hand, jumped to it and glared at me.
Admittedly I am infuriatingly slow when I have my walking stick. And I do tend to clutter up the place.
I can understand their lack of patience with the inconvenient truth of my failing body.
It is unreasonable of me to think just because I have a mobility issue I should be able to go to work, or go on holiday, like everyone else.
I'm clearly not like everyone else, as the tutting, eye rolling, and sidestepping staff made abundantly clear.
I should accept that having a mobility issue means I should stay home. I should stop battling on with my life.
And I definitely shouldn't expect any help from train station customer services teams.
It's not a question of humanity to hoist my case, but their scheduled lunch break. Durgh.
Which is how I ended up falling backwards against the lift alarm, swearing in front of a stranger's six-year-old and getting wedged in the turnstiles to the toilets. Truly caught short.
I won't name and shame the station involved so for the sake of impartiality let's call it Pooh Station. Pooh as in this stinks and Winnie the bear. Hint, hint. Unbearlievably bad form.
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