Kick Ass Blogger?

It’s all too apparent to me now that this interthing is full of absolute tosh that I place no value on whatsoever. The idea of people passing awards around to each other whenever the urge takes them just diminishes the value of everything if you ask me.

I mean look at this. I’ve been nominated as a Kick Ass Blogger. As if I’m going to put it up here and, like, feel a silly little glow of pride because someone thought of my blog and sent it to me. As if I’m going to visit it when I’m supposed to be doing other things like feeding my children. And check on the traffic too often just to see how many others have genuflected before my obvious wit, charm and wisdom. Damn pride. No sir, you misunderestimate me if you think that I’m going to commit one of the deadliest sins just for that piece of vanity. Or is that two of the deadliest sins? (You see how creeping these things are? You see?)

But I’m not a complete churl, and I do not want to offend others needlessly. So even though I hold it in no esteem whatsoever, I will say a polite thank you to Yankee who passed this ‘award’ on to me and is obviously an erudite, thoughtful and totally hot blogger, despite her weakness for shiny things that I put no value on whatsoever. And I will also follow the rule and give respect to MammaDawg who is Christian and obviously designed this award from a completely Christian perspective of charity and doing unto others etc. Misguided, of course, but sweet.

Ok, so I thanked the giver and mentioned the creator. But beyond that I am not playing the game. I’m not going to push this chainmail on five people who I respect in Blogitania like Sharon who’s far too busy with the signal boxes up there on the Northern Line, or enc who’s almost as stylish as I am myself, or Xbox who is definitely too busy for this kind of tawdriness. I’m not going to pretend to be impressed by K8 the Gr8 so that I can drag her into this and I most definitely, assuredly and with utter certainty am not going to ask Elbog to partake of this nonsense.

No. I’m sorry. These awards are the kind of self-referential and self-reverential dweebism that gives this beautiful interland a bad name and I’m not going to dignify them with any acknowledgement whatsoever. To paraphrase Winnie Mandela Churchill, it’s the kind of nonsense up with which I will not put.

Apologies to my normal readers (ie non-blogfreaks). Normal service will resume shortly.
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I found the cure!

This fixes everything! Stumbled upon this and I know you’d want to see it, so here it is.

Living with a handicap: ten months on

There is a man who walks the roads around where I work. I see him sometimes around lunch hour. His left arm seems to be twisted, against his will, straining away from him. The thumb points outwards and the palm faces away and it looks like it hurts all the time.

For the longest time I’ve been too fearful to ask. Afraid to engage. Because it’s not just the hand. He has lots of problems. There’s the stoop. He’s virtually doubled up. And the shuffled limp. And the padded, bright yellow safety helmet that suggests a wrong softness within. It lets little wisps of old man white hair poke out here and there. Today in the slim breeze by the rail crossing those wisps seemed to reach for me and repel me at the same moment: Stay away. I’ll make you confront your good fortune and your cosy life and things might not ever be so comfortable again.

I should have stepped back.

But I am not myself these days. Changes happened back there somewhere. If the little boy in The Sixth Sense could see dead people, then I seem to have acquired the gift of seeing live ones. Ones who had hitherto been marginalised by the fit, healthy Leni Riefenstahl-sponsored part of my brain that refused to look directly – really, truly look – at anybody with an obvious mental or physical condition. What if they tore my comfort zone from around me? What if… what if I caught something from them? The cells of my fit body would recoil from the very thought of such grotesquerie.

Until Jacob.

Leni Riefenstahl my backside. God has no more love for my beautiful chromosomal symmetry than he does for my ‘damaged’ son’s awkward perfection. And something happened inside at a level that I don’t ever expect to understand. I saw beyond, to what the old man was. Not some sideshow freak, but a man with more difficulties than me.

The barrier was still down, the DART pulling out from the platform towards town. The helmet looked uncomfortable. I leaned down and saw the person in his eyes. I’ve been so foolish for so long. I smiled a smile that reflected, I hope, the love I felt for humanity.

‘How are you getting on today?’

‘Oh fuck off and ask me arse.’

More special than you

Psst! Dad! I’ve got special needs.
Doesn’t that make you melt just a little bit?

Listen kid, don’t push it. We’re all special.

Don’t gimme that. My needs are way
more special than you.

Oh yeah? You got a mortgage repayment on the tenth? A family to feed? A hallway skirting to paint before the carpet guys come?

No.

Hah! Thought not. Shuddup then.

Hmmm.

Hmmm.

So. You got any caca in your pants?

Thought not. I win.