Tag Archives: adapted housing

“S.C.out of there”

Unusually I am starting the week not in crisis. By this statement I know I am probably doing the proverbial, ‘Tempting fate.’ However, all is quiet on the home front. Then my dad arrives in the company of our lovely, working Cocker Spaniel, Scout. Scout is a girl! She is named after the central character in the American classic ‘To Kill a Mockingbird’, something I repeatedly have to explain to people who failed to have studied it at school, or who do not have a father who has it as one of his favourite books.

Dad and Scout arrived after a walk at Rudyard Lake, where dad had allowed her to explore the lake through a ‘good paddle’. Thus allowed her to acquire a considerable amount of sediment in her paws and fringes, most of which was deposited on my living room floor. My dad dutifully got the hoover out, which triggered a mammoth barking session and attempts to exact dominance over this noisy, electrical device from Scout.

Dad cleaned the area where the dirt had been deposited, leaving a ery clean patch in the middle of my floor. His OCD kicked in and he began hoovering and dusting the rest of the room so it would look eq

ually clean throughout. I did point out my cleaner was coming the next day and would have nothing to do, but to no avail.

Having a dog in our lives has proved to be a revelation, technically

Scout is our 2nd ever, family pet. Cassie, her predecessor and a Westie, was a different temperament altogether, not particularly into exploring in fact she once got lost when she squeezed under the garden fence and my mum found her in the neighbour’s garden waiting for someone to find her. It did not seem to occur to her that she could walk to the front of the house. Her single great motivator was food and the company of my nan, who she stayed with in the day while we were all at work or college. She had the acquisition of food down to a fine art. When my nan would go to visit her stepmother in respite care she would take Cassie to visit with ‘the oldies’ who would furnish her with Kitkats and other forbidden treats. Such was the mark this made on her that when walking past the home and not visiting she would attempt to drag her human companion into the entrance. Similarly, the owners of the local oatcake shop used to give her a sausage and this meant that she would refuse to go past the shop until she had received said sausage. She was my post-orthopaedic surgery present, the good effects of which lasted longer than the surgery’s, i.e. I benefited more from having her than from having the surgery itself. She wasn’t what you would call intrinsically loving, she would just flap her ears up and down to show she was pleased to see you, but she was funny to have around.

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Scout is a different personality altogether and, I have to say, she is never more than two feet away from you. I think her middle name should be Shadow. She likes to get her nose into everything, followed thereafter by her paws and then her mouth, this is quite sweet until you find her having a discreet little nibble of your left front wheel, or running off with a pair of your socks. Phone conversations with my Dad have now become punctuated by “Scout get down” or “Scout get out of there”. I commented to my Dad that she was very aptly named having ‘out’ in her name. Some of my friends have said I should train her to be an assistive dog. I thought this sounded like a good idea and in the book I bought I was heartened to see that a spaniel was featured. I sat her on my knee and pointed at the picture. I don’t think there a spark of mutual recognition. In this book it talks about dogs loading the washing machine with clothes, the closest we have come thus far (with the possible exception of the day she made me late for art by pulling my trousers off when I was trying to put them on) was when she stole my new, relatively expensive top off the radiator and proceeded to chew it and mop the floor. Not the kind of help I had in mind. Unbelievably my new top came out relatively unscathed.

I have discovered there is nothing like the companionship, fun and love you get from a dog. Scout is a positive force for healing in the wake of bereavement. She is my Dad’s new companion in daily activity, with an endless love of walking, boundless energy and inquisitiveness. On Monday I found her in my kitchen with a pen in her mouth, looking like I do when I am thinking what to write next. I think she is getting to know us both very well indeed!

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Wheelie Good Omens

I thought things were going well. It has been a whole three months since the accessibility equipment gremlins last came out to play, so long in fact that I was beginning to think they had been successfully rehoused. Alas no. I got up last Tuesday to the sound of a loud hissing noise, my brain hurriedly came out of bank-holiday hibernation. What the hell now I sighed inwardly?

Those who follow me regularly will be aware of all my gadget-related nightmares. For all of you newcomers, the bungalow I live in is about 40 years old and six years ago, when I inherited it, the inside was internally demolished and rebuilt, mostly by my Mum and Dad. The result was a very spangly looking ensemble, which was dutifully equipped with every gismo you can get to make living with disability easier. The result was very definitely rehab chic, open plan and pneumatic cupboards. There really was no (parental) expense spared. Everyone with disability knows the manufacturers always put a few extra 0s onto the price for good measure. The thing they don’t tell you about is the hell you will experience when all these bits of kit that make you more independent decide to break down. My life is punctuated with phone calls that begin “Dad can you just…..”. Things got so bad with my pushbutton front door, that when it stopped working for about the twentieth time I gave up and had it disconnected. There does come a point in your life when less really is more. I pointed out to my Dad, who was keen to give the door one last try, that struggle as I may with the average front door, once it is locked it will normally remain so similarly, when opened it will do the same and, save for an act of God, it will move between open and shut without engaging in small acts of rebellion.
Needless to say, the all singing all dancing door has now been officially downgraded and I have had about 8 months of stress-free living. Anyway, the hissing was coming from the bidet loo. Water was trickling out of the wash nozzle, even though the tap was off. My first thought was limescale, a big problem where I live, blocking the valve. I dutifully attacked the nozzle with a heavy duty limescale remover, but there was no improvement and loos are just about the one appliance you can’t live without. Meanwhile, my Mum had arrived to help with my household cleaning. She examined the loo, promising to send my Dad down when he arrived home from work.

I couldn’t help but think that something else going wrong with the house was a bad omen. I had a trip to London planned and I get a little sensitive when I am going travelling. I begin to imagine that these little things are a sign not to venture out. The loo was easy to fix in the end, it was just a washer, phew! Perhaps, my week would be fine after all.

Friday arrived and I had a knot in my stomach. My inner child briefly whined that London is big and scary and did we really have to go? Yes, I said, putting my foot down and dragging us both out of the door. I got on the train seamlessly, thanks to the lovely organised Virgin people in red that seemed to appear from nowhere proffering ramps. This has got to be the only way to travel. I felt my stomach begin to relax. I was on the train, there was only one stop, what could go wrong? I turned on my Daisy talking book player to make a start of, ‘The Bell Jar’ by Sylvia Plath. The machine’s automated voice informed me, “Low battery. Powering off in one minute.” Well I did ask the question. Let’s just say that I was relieved to have done the paperwork for the London meeting with my support-worker instead of trusting in technology.

Two hours on a train with nothing to do, other than to just sit back and wait for inspiration to strike. I figure it has worked for JK Rowling, then I really would be able to afford to write. I managed to grab one of the train staff as I desperately needed a cup of tea and couldn’t see any sign of the refreshment trolley. I asked for help from a passing member of staff in getting a cup of tea. This lovely young man went and got me one for no charge. This must be a week for good omens.