It's not just a step

[Image: Handwritten sign sticky tapped to the glass in a yellow door. The sign reads, WHEELCHAIR RAMP AVAILABLE. PLEASE ASK AT COUNTER, with a cartoon of a ramp over two steps. (source)]



I enjoy going out to eat, even if it's one chip and a couple of Ondans. I like going for a glass of wine, sitting and chatting, mostly at Mr Grumpy as he sits and nods and uh huhs, in all the right places.

Lucille is loaded on the back of the car, her cherry red cover a bright spot in the rear view mirror. I head out of the four walls that make up 90% of my week. Legs, bp, energy particularly unobliging but I have Lucille who allows me to leave the house with independence, to participate in the world. I head out on a Friday night like half the town. People enter pubs, restaurants and music venues. There's laughter, orders are placed, tonight's live music duo start to set up. I head out only to find a step.

It's just a step.

I should have rung ahead. I should have checked. Again. Again. Again.

There's a portable ramp.

Just ask.

Not that there are any signs to let you know it exists.

But I can't go through the front door. It's around the side in the tiny alley where you can't really manoeuvre. They'll move the bins, and the chairs, and the mop and bucket stored down the side.

Everyone is overly solicitous and the crowd of onlookers gawk as the spectacle unfolds.

Do you need a hand? No. I'll just...the hand reaches across ignoring my response. They pull and push. Complexity increases. I'm right. Let me just...I now negotiate the armpit and the body. How to fit between door frame and arm and body now towering over me, and also miss the toes that are now in the only path I can take?

There's applause. Or "a good on you" "well done."

I feel the tightening in my stomach, the fake thank you leaves my lips. The evening starts as it always does as public spectacle and it'll end in the same way. I can neither arrive or leave on my own. I must ask and wait. I must be grateful. The energy expenditure is huge I am tired before I even see the wine list. The shine is taken from the night. Again. Again. Again.

It's not just a step.



I'm sitting eating my meal, talking to Mr Grumpy and enjoying the scenery and I hear "that thing could take you to the moon!" I grimace then smile, suck down the visceral reaction. I am expected to interact with the older men at the adjoining table. They mean well. I turn away and they keep talking at me, asking questions, making inane comments. They look well pleased with themselves for deigning to interact with the woman in the wheelchair.

It's not just a step.



The step nearly trips me, but my other half and walking stick get me up there. I sit and have a glass of wine. I prepare to leave and an old guy thinks it's hilarious to ask about my "war wound" chuffed with his sparkling wit. He waits, expecting an explanation. I mutter a surly "it's not a war wound" and steady myself to descend the steps tension now in my previously relaxed shoulders.

It's not just a step.




The clothing store has a ramp, but a door I can't open. Someone comes frantically running. Overly solicitous. Sing song voice.

I'm in but can't manoeuvre through the racks or tables thanks to displays that spill over at ground level.

They have a friend, neighbour, second cousin twice removed who is disabled. Do I know them?

It's so good I get out.

So what's wrong with you?

As I head to the back of the store, dress in my lap, it becomes clear that there is no accessible change room. I head back out the door. No purchase made.

It's not just a step.




I go gift shopping. But the first store has a step. The second store? A step and a doorway too small to enter. The third a nice wide opening but a saleswoman who continues to talk to me like she's auditioning for Play School and pats me as I try to just look at the products.

It's not just a step.



I'm at the medical clinic and need to use the loo. But the door's too heavy. The short wall to conceal the room makes the turning circle near impossible, well if I want to keep the skin on my fingers. I need assistance to open the door to the accessible loo. I need it once more to get out. The Clayton's accessible loo seems favoured where ever I go.

I roll into the GP's room clipping the too small doorway. I can't get up onto the table. The pity looks start. The pat.

I roll out once more to pay at the desk I can't see over.

It's not just a step.




My husband goes to park in the accessible bay. Only someone is there. We drive on by because we can't see if there is or isn't a permit. Drive on by until we can find a spot somewhere, far away from our destination, where he can get my wheelchair off and around to my side of the car.

We pass the bay next to our destination only to see the car has no permit. But they're only going to be a minute. They'll move if someone needs it. Screw you and your special privileges. They're missing out because they don't get special bays. Nobody uses it anyway. Disabled people don't go the gym, the nightclub, the bar, the cafe, the.... Disabled people don't go out after dark. Or on weekends. Screw you, there are more important things in the world.

It's not just a step.




Where's your companion? I don't have one. I'm here alone. I'll keep this seat for your carer. I'm here alone. Have you got someone with you, dear? No I'm alone. Oh good on you getting out and about.

It's not just a step.




It's not just a step, or a side entrance, or an infantilising voice, or an entitled attitude to parking bays, or the norm of steps, small doorways, heavy doors, small aisles, or no change rooms.

It's not just the inability to see me as a singular independent woman.

Or the rude and invasive questions.

But that it fits into a narrative comprised of a long list of anothers, that are carried by the disabled community day after day after day.




Another accessible parking fiasco reigns across Facebook.
Another advocate receiving death threats.
Another person is unable to access public transport.
Another forced to prove their disability.
Another can't access their place of employment.
Another misses out on tickets due to a cumbersome accessible ticketing procedures.
Another writing residency that's not accessible.
Another meme about lists marginalised groups that forgets disability exists.
Another advocacy event that is inaccessible.
Another dies because doctors couldn't see beyond their disability.
Another dies at the hands of police.
Another is murdered in a mercy killing.
Another refusal to conduct a Royal Commission into institutional abuse.
Another appalling statistic about violence and abuse gets two lines before being buried under a mound of celebrity articles, or forgotten when citing statistics of violence and abuse in other intersecting groups.
Another story where segregation and subjugation are marketed as inclusive.
Another where people are employed for a pittance while the able-bodied organisers collect their regular pay checks and sit around and pat themselves on the back.
Another stat on homelessness and the ridiculous lack of accessible accommodation both in public and private housing.
Another story indicating we are better off dead than disabled.
Another inspirational school quarterback takes disabled girl to prom, story.
Another demand that disabled people put in the emotional labour to explain.
Another able-bodied journalist, commentator, troll, deciding how we should feel, act, live, or die.
Another saying overtly and more subtly that we could not possibly be the experts on our lives or our needs and wants.
Another.

Another in the long lists of anothers.




Another built on top of all the others before it. Weighing us down. Exhausting us. Until we either lash out or give in.

Because it's not just a step.




It is all the steps that have been before and will be again in the future. It's how they weave together to frame us. How they make their way to the very core of our being. How even when we pride ourselves on our strength and self-assurance, it gets in through the cracks. A putrid water leaching up through our foundations to hit us in the hidden parts of self. And how we grin and bear so much of it because you have to really pick your battles.

A long never ending list. A list that says we aren't welcome. We aren't important. We aren't even an afterthought. We are less than. We are forgettable.

I am tired of asking. Of making phone calls or scenes. I'm tired that I roll past business after business after business that remains inaccessible.

It's that when I speak out I am chastised. Be quiet little disabled person. You are making me uncomfortable. Be grateful. Stop being a victim. God, you're bitter. Smile. Just ignore it. Get over it. You're making me feel bad so screw you and all disabled people. There's people dying in Africa, don't you know. Let me play devils advocate for a moment.




It's that I list off all the reasons we have to be upset and angry, (Disability erasure at it's finest), I get lots of head nodding and agreement. Outrage that bursts forth, then dwindles, is forgotten, and nothing changes.

It's not just a step.

It is that this world remains largely inaccessible to disabled people. Societal and institutional discrimination continues to weigh heavily on our access to not just a shop front, or our ability to go out on a Friday night, but to the societal interactions that most take for granted. A burden that we unequally must bear along with whatever our body may have thrown at us.

It's not just a step and I am tired.



Michelle

YOU.

[Image: a woman in a wheelchair sits in front of a grey shed door in the bright sun. Her hair dress and stockings are all pink her shoes silver.]




I am a disabled woman.

I am a disabled woman.

I AM A DISABLED WOMAN.

And

I am disabled by you.




Yes, you.

You there.

You who's looking shocked.

You who thinks, oh she can't mean me?

You who is starting to feel the slow creep of discomfort and defensiveness.




You who see inspiration and bravery before I act or speak a word.

You who feel the sharp pang of pity when I cross your line of sight.

You who pat me, or tell me in a Play School voice that I'm "doing so good!'

You who think, she doesn't look disabled. She doesn't sound disabled. She doesn't act disabled.

You who uses words like overcome and despite when referencing my disability.

You who see me and think, if only she could be fixed.

You who's first question is "so what's wrong with you?" or "what did you do to yourself?"

You who shares Inspiration Porn and simply can't see the problem. "But it is inspiring! Just look."

You who insist that I'm not a disabled woman, I'm a woman with a disability. And insist. And insist. And insist.

You who tell me that disability is a dirty word.

You who tell me I am a person, not my disability.

You who delight in your own perceived enlightenment, because you don't see my disability.

You who uses words like handicapable, (dis)ability, differently-abled.




Just say the fucking word.




You who cheer our paralympians, but baulk at forcing businesses to comply with even the most basic accessibility standards.

You who support accommodating disabled people, until it inconveniences you.

You who book events in inaccessible buildings.

You who create businesses with heavy doors, steps, no accessible change rooms and aisles too small or too cluttered.

You who work in them and say nothing.

You who see a ramp and think that access is sorted.

You who gets offended and angry when your failure is explained.

You who never considered accessibility in the first place.

You who say, why don't you just ring and check?

You who cannot understand how exhausting it is to ALWAYS have to ring ahead to check. And that a yes is no guarantee.

You who think, well disabled people never attend anyway.

You who cannot conceive that the constant lack of accessible venues becomes a self-fulfilling prophecy.





You who think it'll never happen to you.

You are too virtuous, health conscious, perfect, to ever become disabled.

You who knows and are, better.

You who uses the R word or it's derivatives.

You who tell me why it's not offensive, because it doesn't mean the same thing anymore.

You who instantly begin making excuses or explanations for perpetrators when I share my stories of Ableism. "But they had good intentions." "But he really means well." "But what about their feelings?" "Let me play devil's advocate for a second."

You who don't believe Ableism exists.

You who still don't know what Ableism is.




You who say, I wouldn't give in and use a mobility aid.

You who say, oh but I don't mean you. I'm not talking about you. It's okay for you to use one.

You who use terms like "wheelchair-bound" and "confined to a wheelchair".

You who feel defensive when I become angry at their use.

You who ask if I need help, then ignore me when I say "No thanks, I'm fine".

You who feel entitled to put your hands on me, on my wheelchair, without even the most basic of common courtesy to ask.

You who feel entitled to ask my medical history.

You who come up with such unique and witty lines as "that chair could take you to Mars", "Do you have a licence for that?" "The two of you should have a race."




You who think you are a great ally.

You who speak of diversity and privilege, but repeatedly fail to include disability in the list of marginalised groups.

You who speak of embracing your body. embracing your beauty. But fail to include disabled people in your narrative.

You who talks about embracing difference, when what you mean are the differences you find palatable. Not disability.

You who rally against violence, unemployment, homelessness and restrictive reproductive rights but never acknowledge that disabled people are frequently over represented in the statistics. That disabled people who also inhabit other marginalised groups are even more at risk.

You who discount lived experience. What would I know?

You who think your able-perspective can explain my life better, write my life better.

You who think your right trumps mine.

You who believes that in re-centering the narrative around the disabled voice, you are missing out.

You who speak of diversity but only on your terms.

You who think you know better.

You who think we should be grateful.

You who think I'm some sort of inspirational saint for simply living my life.

You who instead expect me to devolve into a puddle of weeping flesh because disability came my way.

You who think you're a superhero for your vigilante policing of accessible parking spaces.

You who shout FAKER and refuse to believe the permit sitting on the dash.

You who still can't understand that invisible disabilities exist.

You who knows most of them are bludgers, fakers, rorters, leaners.

You who tell me I'm "lucky that he's stuck around."

You who think I am so burdensome that I should not expect anyone to want to stay, or, to love me.

You who reads a story about the murder of a disabled child by a parent, a disabled wife by her husband, and think "Understandable" "Justifiable" "Act of Mercy" "Act of Love."




You who think I am pretty, articulate, confident,

FOR A DISABLED WOMAN.

I am disabled by your attitudes.

By your infantilisation.

By your low expectations.

By your erasure, wilful or unintentional.

I am disabled by you.



By you.



By you.



By you.

I AM A DISABLED WOMAN.

A proud disabled woman. 

An amazing disabled woman.

I AM A DISABLED WOMAN.

Michelle

Update: I wrote a post in response to some of the messages I received about this piece When you know better, do better.

A path to nowhere.

[Image: A concrete path stops sharply ending in green grass and worn dirt. A woman's lilac compression stockings knees and edge of black and white skirt are seen alongside the joystick controls of her electric wheelchair.]



Once upon a time there was a disabled woman who lived in a medium-sized country town. After years of dependence and isolation she was finally bequeathed a magical wheelchair. This wheelchair had the power to bring back her independence and allow her to access the world around her in her own time and without a man servant/husband/son to push her. She would no longer be bound to the whims of time off, or after hours, or being propped where her man servants decided to prop her instead of where she wanted to be.

The disabled woman was excited to receive her chair. She promptly hopped in and took her first ride to freedom. She rode around her housing estate and promptly stopped as the foot path ended in a pile of dirt and stones and a busy country road. Undeterred she tried for another path only to find that too ended in grass and little more than a foot worn dirt track two hands span across. Undeterred she once more took off only to find all other exits leading to the main road between her town and the next. Dirt and gravel or thick potholed grass instead of foot path. Trucks carry livestock and farming goods thundered towards her at speed. The woman could not leave her housing estate. She was once more at the whim of a single car that could carry her chair or a public carriage service that could be employed to lug her for a substantial price where she wished to go. If it was available. And she wasn't in a hurry. Or knew the day before what she needed to do and had booked in advance. The disabled woman was frustrated and sad, and full of expletives and rising anger.



Earlier this year a path was proposed that would lead from the housing estate I live in to the rest of the town. I was excited. Such a path would mean that I could finally leave my house unaccompanied and go for a coffee, to the library, local gallery or take a turn in the park. I filled out the surveys and attended the community consultation sessions. My husband spent time on the phone and filled in the same surveys. I went to the council meeting and had my say, as did my husband. Whilst I was not happy with the eventual route the path would take due to it's isolation, I resigned myself to the fact that this path would still at least allow me to access town and I could always invest in a tasar or add a battering ram to my chair. It was supposed to start being built by the end of 2016. But week after week went by and none of the usual signs of an upcoming infrastructure build eventuated. So I contacted my council. I was informed that not only would construction not be starting by the end of this year but that tenders would only be sent out early 2017 for the first half of the path only. First half. Not even the whole path. Not to build. But for the tender process. Which will take, well who knows. The second section. Well at present it is supposed to be completed at some point within the 2017/18 financial period. But there'll be a first half. At some point. I'll get to roll along to another edge. Another slab of concrete ending in grass, gravel and frustrated access.

At the council meeting I tried to impress on the councillors that this path was not just about an alternate way to walk kids to school or a pretty walk to run with your dog, that for people like myself it is about a lifeline to the rest of the town. That this path represents the removal of a financial impost (the use of an accessible taxi service to carry me and my wheelchair) that other members of the community need not pay thanks to the choices that come from being able-bodied or being able to drive. That at present to simply go into town independently to have a coffee I am already slugged with $30 long before I consider a long black at my local cafe, or head to the library to check out a book. That a need for the hospital or medical centre would also attract the same fee. That this path represented an independence that has been lacking in my life since moving to this town nearly three years ago. That as much as I want to participate in my community I am bound by costs with no alternative offered up. That dependence is foistered upon me by the lack of a path. And that I am not alone. There are disabled people, frail people, people who at present are not disabled but could become so at any point in time. And that all of these people required a path for the most basic of needs, access.

Image: an empty council chamber. Blue-grey carpet and a circular wooden table set up with microphones, coloured water bottles and name tags sit in front of a lectern for community members to speak. A lectern as I found out not set up for members of the community who may be in a wheelchair and unable to stand.]



I am resigned to my concerns about safety being wiped away by “there'll be lights” (how that helps in the day I'm not sure) or that there was a reliance on the presence of other users (which will primarily be early morning or after work, not at all during the day). That the path is now to run through an isolated park situated next to open farm land and behind an industrial area and stock yards, because this is a “prettier location” a supposedly safer location. I am not resigned to the fact that this path is not seen as a form of accessibility rather than a nice place to walk the dog or kids to school.

I received this email on the same week as the council was celebrating Social Inclusion Week 2016 with events on all week. None of which I could attend without paying the roughly $30 for a round trip to town. And I sit here with International Day of People with Disability coming up on the 3rd of Dec trying not to get angry about access, (or that after contacting my local council again I am told that there are no events planned for IDPWD on the 3rd. )

To add insult to injury this story about the giant sink hole in the Japanese town of Fukuoka. A giant sink hole involving significant engineering filled in a week. A week. That such a large and important project could be rectified in such a short turn around and my local council can't build a path for two plus years.



Do I hassle my council again? A tiring process that involves large walls of red tape to beat my head against. Should I attend another meeting to be say my piece, when I know I will be ignored or patronised (eg last time I was there a councillor suggested that I and a member of council who was also a wheelchair user could race together at the opening of the path). Should I see them go wow I hadn't considered that, but I'll ignore that factor anyway. Should I have to? Should I or any other disabled person living in this large and expanding section of town have to fork out even more money to do the most basic of activities such as going to the doctor, to buy some milk, or have a cup of coffee? All activities which support local businesses.

1 in 5 people live with disability. 1 in 5 people rely on basic things such as pathways to access their community. Don't talk about social inclusion when you are delaying pathways that would increase inclusion. Don't talk about social inclusion if I and others in other sections of the town without paths, pay $35 for the privilege of a coffee at a local cafe by virtue of my disability. Or are left to stay home yet again doing loops of a housing estate trying not to go stir crazy.


Michelle
 

You know your life has hit a high point when you are sitting in a public toilet waiting to be let out. aka The Claytons Accessible Toilet.

(Sign to the Phantom Accessible Toilet.)

The knock I’d been dreading came suddenly through the door. A hesitant male voice, muffled by the thick door,

“Are you ready?”

“Not yet. Sorry.”

The muffled voice announced that he would be back in a few minutes, and I yelled my thanks. My unenthusiastic tone matching that of the disembodied voice coming from the otherside.

I sat on the toilet with my head in my hands knowing that the voice would be back and this time I would need to be ready. I didn't expect the complete stranger to come back a second time. I’d already apologised once. Because you always want to apologise to a stranger for your bowel and vomiting habits.

Why today? Today was the day that my body required a toilet. Now! Repeatedly. Which doesn't matter so much when I'm home. Or when I have someone with me. But alone. With weak limbs. Limbs more weak than normal, as any other symptom escalation leads to increased weakness. But today I was alone. My companion in another part of the hospital attending their own needs.

The other part of the hospital.

As there are no accessible toilets in the busy section of the hospital where he is being attended. Although there is a sign pointing to an accessible toilet. The phantom toilet that doesn't exist despite the bright blue sign and the arrow. The one I sent him off to search for, but instead it led to two sets of able bodied toilets, but no accessible version.

Instead I must navigate the convoluted hallways to one of two accessible toilets in another part of the hospital. Toilets that I had initially been escorted too by a staff member as the route was too hard to explain.

And now I sit here alone waiting to be let out.

Blanche DuBois' classic line from A Streetcar Named Desire, comes to mind. “I have always depended on the kindness of strangers.” This time because someone keeps designing so-called accessible toilets with doors too heavy for weak arms. Doors that wont even click to stay open so I can roll in without being hit and getting jammed, should I actually be able to open them. The Claytons version of an accessible toilet.

Weakened arms and slowed movements after having to self propel to the distant toilets, and then I couldn't even open the door. A strange man saw me struggle, came out of his office to help. The damsel in distress. Because I love that feeling. The feeling of dependence. Ugh. It’s bad enough when it’s a regular door, but a toilet just adds to the loathing. The embarrassment. The frustration. I have no desire to be Blanche for even the most basic of life's events.

And so I sat in the toilet waiting to be let out. Twiddling my thumbs. Looking up at the roof. Waiting. Because the accessible toilet failed at accessibility on the door step. Because being stuck in a toilet is my life long dream.

I unlocked the door and waited.

And waited.

Until a woman pushed the door open onto me and my chair. Surprise!

She shrieked and jumped back. The man from the office came running. And I turned a bright shade of red. Too many cooks spoil the broth and too many helpers make getting out of the accessible toilet a farce of awkward arms propping doors and helping to direct what I can direct myself. Nothing like having to duck a strange armpit, or two as both arms are extended over your head, bums stuck out awkwardly and tip toes engaged. And everyone is embarrassed and awkward. And overly accommodating and solicitous.

I rolled off as quickly as I could. A snails pace with weakened limbs and hands that refused to grip the wheel rims properly. Refusing offers to push me to whereever I need to go in the hospital.

A hospital.

Where people are sick. And injured. In wheelchairs and on crutches. Where weakness is high. Where access may be needed, now! Not when you can find someone to let you in.

Accessibility is so much more than a big toilet and a couple of rails.

It is not accessible if I must ask for help to open a door. If I must rely on another. If I must sit inside, stuck, not even a button to push for assistance.

I am grateful to the man from the office and even the shrieking woman. Neither had to help me. But if they had not it would have been grossly problematic given I had rampant nausea and had manage to forget both my puke bag and antiemetics.

Accessible means I can pee, or poo, or puke alone. Accessible means I am on even par with those who do not have medical issues and disability and who can pee, poo, or puke with wild, independent, abandon.

So often I go places where the doors are so heavy I cannot access them alone. Or if automated close so quickly that I end up with bruises or stuck in the doorway.

I went to a conference earlier this year. When I questioned the organisers about accessibility they said the venue had assured them there was an accessible toilet.

And there was.

Four floors down. Through two sets of doors I could not open and down dodgy hallways and through storage rooms. Accompanied by a security guard. Who had to be paged. While I waited at a front desk. A security guard who in the end had to push me back through the maze as my arms gave out.*

Totally accessible.

I went to a medical clinic earlier this year and could not access their accessible toilet thanks to the placement of two small doorways at right angels and an automatic door which kept closing on me, all of which prevented me from being able to move my chair to get in or once inside out again. My swearing and banging alerted my husband to my predicament and he had to physically lift my chair to be able to navigate the small awkward space. If alone I would not have been able to pee.

Or the major Melbourne hospital that had a locked accessible toilet with a sign saying to go to security for the key. Only when my son went to collect the key, no one was there. He then went to the information desk who couldn't tell him where an alternative accessible toilet would be located and we were directed to try another floor. Nothing like a quest to find a toilet when your bladder is about to go all B-grade disaster movie as the dam breaks.

The examples go on and on. And don't get me started on their use as storerooms.

Being able to access a toilet is a basic need. And yet even when there are dedicated toilets something like the weight of a door, surrounding architecture and distance, can make it inaccessible from the get go.

No one should have to rely on the kindness of a stranger to pee. Or have the indignity of being stuck inside unable to get out until that stranger or another comes back.

It's not that hard.

Michelle

*All credit to the organisers who followed up my complaint and were angry on my behalf.

Sing it Beyonce! I want to be an Independent peeing Woman!

When is an accessible park not an accessible park? Gippsland South by-election early voting.

Accessibility is an ongoing issue in Australia. It makes life difficult. I hate having to call ahead or double think where I can go, but at present it is a fact of life you have to deal with if you're in a chair or your mobility is compromised in some manner. I resign myself to not being able to shop in many stores or go to certain restaurants and bars as the venue is simply inaccessible. Or often even if there is a ramp there may not be an accessible loo once you get inside. I am lucky that some days I am more mobile and can use my cane with aid, but many are the days now where a chair is my only option. On those days my options to shop or participate in the community are even further restricted.

When I see a blue accessible parking sign, even a temporary one, I assume that it will be an accessible park. Especially when it has been put up by the Victorian Electoral Commission. But no, not even that can be relied on. You can pull into a park set aside as the accessible park, by a government body and find that it is just a regular park and the bollard meaningless.

I went to put in an early vote today. There was a removable bollard indicating an accessible parking spot. So we pulled in. Only problem was that it wasn't in any way accessible despite being close to the store converted for early voting. Once out of the car I either had to negotiate up over the gutter or go out into the street and negotiate the traffic to find a portion of the street that had an accessible ramp to get up onto the foot path.

I did not fancy having to go out into busy traffic to roll along either, to the right) in between parked cars and moving traffic, or to the left) onto the road and into oncoming traffic and a busy roundabout to make my way to a ramp. So I left my chair in the car and used my cane with the support of Mr Grumpy. I managed to stumble, unsteadily up over the gutter and make my way slowly to the converted shop. Given how unsteady I was my risk for a fall was high.

The gutter I had to negotiate.

On top of that there was a step into the store where early voting could take place which would have created even more difficulty should I have been in my chair. Alone in my chair I would not be able to enter the shop.

Step into the front of the store to vote.

Disappointingly when Mr Grumpy spoke to the representatives of the various candidates out front about the poor accessibility of the site, their response was a typical 'not our problem we didn't pick it.' Not even a 'Gee, yeah you're right. We should do something about that.'

Not like we disabled folk vote. Oh that's right we do, but not for the candidates whose representatives fob them off.

What I hate more than a completely inaccessible building is when people make a pretense of thinking about accessibility. As if by putting up the bollard they'd ticked all the boxes. (Admittedly we didn't mention it to election staff inside as frankly I was just over it. If I had my time again I would, but it gets exhausting always having to point this stuff out.)

Accessibility is not a sign.

But if there is one I should be able to rely on its presence not only to park, but be able to access the building to vote.

Even should the parking spot have been valid, what is the point if the shop where the actual voting takes place, isn't accessible?

I'm not sure how this is so hard. But I do know it is exhausting always having to second guess and educate.

Michelle