Whenever I think about the long-term future of this blog, how it could come to evolve and develop, I notice one thing that never seems to feature in my plans. No matter what I might want to achieve, be it big or small, it’ll never involve changing the title. Third Time Enabled – the name appearing above every page. Indeed, every time I go to my Settings, the option is there, with the cursor flashing over a box that would enable me to change the very identity of this project in an instant.

It stares me in the face, almost daring me to act, but I ignore it. This is out of pure sentimentality, as the name is a product of a certain time in my life. When I created this blog one Saturday back in August, I was at something of a crossroads, transitioning from a time bearing a certain amount of negativity into one that seemed much brighter and happier. If this is still running in several years’ time – and for now I have set a timeframe of at least two years – I would like to be reminded of that period when I look at those three words. In this respect, the name really is a time capsule, albeit a small one – a minute but (to me at least) link between the past and the present. Perhaps, if I was starting to write these posts today, the choice of “Third Time Enabled” would be ill-advised. Even if it isn’t particularly snappy, however, it does get me to the top of the web search results. After all, my choice won’t exactly be a common one, will it? And who cares anyway? It’s unique to me, it has meaning and value in my eyes, and it’s encouraging too. “Enabled” is the opposite of “disabled”, and this blog certainly has enabled me. It’s set me free in one sense, and allowed me to express my thoughts, ideas and feelings in my own way on a platform I’m free to build up. And nobody can say otherwise. Who wouldn’t want that?

Mason

I’m having a chat with a friend of mine on Facebook (other social networks are available). I notice that their sentences are short, devoid of the flowing grandeur and variation of longer ones. Their words seem carefully regulated at first, giving nothing away and perhaps signifying that they are holding something back. Naturally, as I would be with any of my friends, I’m concerned, and convinced that something is lurking below their surface, something they might be bottling up. I take the plunge, and enquire as to why such a usually animated friend is being so succinct. As I’m awaiting the reply, I wonder whether I might have inadvertently crossed a boundary of some kind. I’m never going to criticise their speech, as they are just as cheerful, polite and invested in the conversation as always, but I don’t want to offend and I’m worried that this question might count as a personal one.

When the reply came, it turned out that I needn’t have worried, as my friend is simply “more chilled out”. This revelation is one that was intriguing, but also incredibly warming and uplifting. The fact that my friend was quite this chilled was reassuring, as such short but confident responses must be symbolic of a life where everything is going as it should. Somehow, I was also reading each message in a certain tone – a soft, contented one, and one that the smiley faces at the end of each sentence did well to amplify and boost me with. They felt chilled, and so did I. If I’m honest, brief sentences can annoy me because, more often than not, they convey a lack of interest from the person I’m talking to. Not in this case, however, because every ounce of my friend’s magnificent personality was still there, just in fewer words, and I didn’t mind at all. It’s not often in my nature to be quite as brief, but maybe there’s a lesson to be learned for others who want to feel as chilled. If you inject the same care and consideration into five words as you might do into a thousand, you could reach that state of calm sooner rather than later. Especially if you include a smiley face. 🙂

Mason

Deanna and I were going to go for a pizza. Eventually, though, we had to choose another option because it was windy, and we couldn’t be bothered to walk the distance to get one.

Hold on a minute. What was that word? “Walk”. Someone who spends most of his days confined to his wheelchair had described himself as doing the one thing he doesn’t actually do, except for when an adult is helping him with their hands in his armpits. In actual fact, I use this description of my movements all the time, but I only noticed when I was telling a friend of mine that pizza story – and when I did, I smiled to myself. This is because I realised how clever it was. I saw how it allowed me to put myself on an equal level with others, without ever even realising. I don’t walk, but by describing driving my chair somewhere as walking, I am without any kind of label for that split second. You could almost say that for an instant, I unknowingly cast away my disability.

Equality is very important to me, as it should be to everyone, but for me it is made even more so by the fact that people have always done whatever they can to help me feel accepted, in turn making me even more determined to return the favour. However, I have now noticed that I can do part of what others do for me simply by using this language. I can say that I’ve walked, dashed, bolted or done whatever others have just to inject tiny, continuous doses of normality into my life. And in the process, I can help others in an additional way by letting them know that it is OK to say things like that. You won’t offend me, you’ll reassure me, and you’ll take another important step towards achieving equality, which everyone should have without exception.

Just don’t say “spastic”. I hate that word. It’s horrible, most people don’t even know exactly what it means, and if that applies to you you really should watch what you say. Are we clear? Good.

Mason

“What did you think of the second issue, by the way?” asked Will this morning. A few weeks earlier, he’d sent me a script for the latest instalment of the comic series he’s been writing. I’d said – entirely truthfully – that I would read it as soon as possible and get back to him with my thoughts. Looking at the date on which the script had last been saved, 12 March, I saw that over a month had passed between it being sent and me coming to read it, within the last couple of hours. It was brilliant, of course, but despite having simply forgotten about it I felt guilt at having taken so long to fulfil even a small promise – one that I had already made when he’d sent it to me once before.

We can never determine the exact paths our lives will take. There will be both high and low points along the way, fluctuations and inconsistencies. That’s why, even though I like to keep continuity to a decent standard by checking what I’ve written beforehand, I still allow for a mistake and a blip here and there. If that wasn’t the case, the blog wouldn’t be truly representative of real life and its constant unpredictability. Despite this, however, some things should be determined, ensured and stuck to. These include the loyalty we give friendships and relationships, and the promises we make to the people we care about. You don’t need me to tell you that to be decent human beings we should all be honest and committed to following everything through, but it can be all too easy to treat the smaller things as less important than the bigger things.

It’s considered perfectly normal to occasionally forget something when it’s convenient to do so, or tell a little lie to get ourselves out of a hole (not that I did either of these things). Small though they may be, they’re still breaches of pledges you’ve made to people you love. I was surprised when Mum once revealed just how many minor fibs I tell her on a regular basis, all with no malice intended but all done without a second thought. It did shock me to an extent, as did the realisation that I’d allowed myself to forget a promise I’d made to a friend yet again. Therefore, I’m using the 50th Third Time Enabled post to vow that I’ll do all I can to honour my future promises as soon as possible. I’ll read anything you send me much more quickly, and if I haven’t gotten round to it yet, you can be sure I’ll be there soon. That’s a little something to make this post a landmark.

Mason

This week I’ve been giving more thought to putting the first 50 posts on this blog into a book of some kind. What I’m writing now is (I believe) post 49, and thinking about this led me to wonder about lucky numbers and why we have them. If I was to be asked about my own, I’d say that no number comes closer than 81. I say “if” because, to be honest, I don’t consider 81 to be particularly lucky for me, just a number that’s definitely kept popping up throughout my life even if I can’t remember exactly when. I do remember the first time, though – made so memorable by a makeshift parachute, of all things!

I was in Year 3 of first school and we must have been doing something revolving around gravity in Science. Whatever the case, it necessitated the appearance of tissue paper and string as everyone – perhaps in pairs – hastily cobbled together parachutes that could carry an egg, or something just as fragile, to the ground without breaking it. I didn’t have any hand in making mine as I couldn’t possibly be trusted with or capable of such a task then – or now, come to think of it! Before long, all of the parachutes were complete and we took it in turns to drop them from a controlled height. The most successful ones were judged not only on how intact their cargo was, but also on how quickly they fell. Various members of the class displaced each other with the fastest time, but when my turn came around I was in for a pleasant surprise.

I had been particularly excited to see how my parachute would fare, and this excitement grew as each of the other creations faced off against each other. There was success and failure in equal measure, and I didn’t know what to expect when all eyes were on my (or my teaching assistant’s) tissue paper canopy. It fell. It touched down. Everything was undamaged. Someone had stopped the stopwatch. The time was a very quick one. Quicker than any of those that had been recorded beforehand or would come later. Therefore, my teaching assistant’s parachute had won. But what was the time?

4.81 seconds. Note the last two digits! Reading this, you might think that it wouldn’t make sense for me to classify 81 as a number important to me if I can’t remember exactly where it’s incorporated itself into my life. In that first instance, however, when I won that contest, I’d achieved a victory that may have been small but was still rare in the face of the misfortune that had come my way because of my condition. I’d missed out on a lot compared to the kids around me but it was nice to have even that short moment of recognition. 81 was a good number for a parachute-dropping competition, and hopefully it was part of a good story here too. It looks pretty cool as well, don’t you think?

Mason

When I first started on a new post yesterday, I briefly but carefully considered the idea of inserting an elaborate April Fool’s joke into it. Later on in the day, however, I decided against it, mainly because I’m not mean like that – but also because I believe they just don’t work any more. I can’t remember the last time I saw a prank I’ve properly fallen for, because every year you just come to expect them, and whenever I do see one I can usually see straight through it. There’s a real lack of originality in them these days, or any kind of ability to prevent suspicion.

There should be room for comedy gold on April Fool’s Day, but just about everything clever has already been done, leaving only mediocre attempts that feebly serve the name of the day. This, for me, begs the question – do we really need April Fool’s Day now? As much as I hate to be a killjoy, I really doubt anyone would really notice if it was quietly removed from the calendar. It’s the only named day I’d happily disregard, because it’s lost all meaning, if it even had any in the first place. Putting “APRIL FOOL!” at the end of something does not make it funny.

This has been an unusually small and possibly rubbish rant. Sometimes these things just have to be done!

Mason

A couple of days ago, on my lunch break from my current work placement, a familiar voice called my name through the hustle and bustle of the town. It was one I hadn’t heard in a while, but upon turning I matched it to my friend Emily, following close behind. I hadn’t seen her in several months, but to see her again was a very welcome and very nice surprise. Now we’re out of school, with our lives taking their respective paths, the most effective way for us to keep in touch is through social media, and whilst that’s a godsend in one sense, it is infinitely more uplifting to encounter someone again on the street after so long.

I told Emily myself that seeing as I hadn’t seen anybody I knew since starting my placement, I was glad she was the first. In the past she’s given me some very happy times, so as someone who has a lot of time for her I was pleased to spend even five minutes in her presence. I’m always open about the people who mean a lot to me – you should have grasped that by now! Personally, it’s always touching when people take the time to stop and talk to me, even if I do sometimes struggle to get any words out. It was great to find out that all was well with Emily, especially seeing as she’s recently gotten a new job that I’m sure she’ll enjoy. It will always satisfy me to see a friend going far with something they’re passionate about, and I’m sure Emily has a lot further to go yet. She was pleased that my placement is progressing well too, and – as is always the way with positivity like that – I felt my mood improve that little bit more.

I try to make my posts interesting and readable for everybody, no matter what their situation may be, but from the moment Emily left me to go into a shop before her bus left I knew I wanted to record the meeting here, perhaps just to put my own feelings forward. I do what I can to stay in touch with her and all of the friends I haven’t seen recently, but as I may have said before, the idea of being able to see someone for the first time in so long and just pick up where you left off is special. It happened with Emily on that day – I’m glad it can happen like that, and I’m very grateful it did, because it not only put a smile on my face, but it also inspired me to write this post, and was among the things that have made my week.

Mason

…Formula One. The new season kicked off in Australia over the weekend, and even though I have been a devotee of the sport for as long as I can remember, the feeling I get at this time every year never loses its magic. In the off-season, between November and March, there is still lots to keep the fans entertained as preparations for the next 19, 20 or 21 races get underway, but nothing beats the eve of Round 1. For me, it’s another Christmas Eve and an exciting step into the unknown. Until the cars hit the track in anger, from the first practice session onwards, there’s no true indication of who will reign supreme at the front or how any new teams or rookies will fare as they hit the ground running. This sense of anticipation is shared by enthusiasts the world over. On a more personal level, however, the thought of having a qualifying session and race to watch every other weekend is very meaningful to me – it always has been and it always will be.

I know more about Formula One than I do about anything else, and I’d turn down dinner at Buckingham Palace without a second thought if it meant I risked missing a Grand Prix. My level of familiarity with it – and with many other forms of motorsport – means that it acts as a comfort blanket of sorts, and whenever I watch a race I feel like I don’t have a care in the world. For at least two hours each time, anything pressing on my mind is totally forgotten. Even though I follow its progress every day, it is my biggest indulgence and I would be lost without it. It stimulates me, engages me and brings out my enthusiasm in a way that not many other things can.

This may partially be because Formula One is unlike so many other sports in the world. In football, for example, the rules stay fundamentally the same across every season and with so many players on a club’s payroll, you have a great deal more heads on which to depend on the pitch. When it comes to Grand Prix teams, however, there are only two drivers who simply must cut the mustard, as should the many departments of staff who ensure that the entire multi-million pound operation runs like a well-oiled machine. If this is the case, every new car stands the best chance of gaining success and the many benefits – financial and otherwise – that allow the team to return to the track for another year. If it is not the case, as it so often isn’t in such a demanding sport as this, there need to be immediate changes, and these happen with the circuits and rules as well as the teams and drivers. Every part of the show is constantly evolving, making it fast-paced and exciting off the track as well as on. Aside from this, it is also more “rock and roll” than any other sport on the planet, with an image unmatched in terms of coolness. There is so much to love about motorsport, and for me that passion will only grow for as long as I live. I spent two days writing this post because I wanted to convey my feelings about it in such a way that nobody would be left in any doubt about their strength. In reality, though, I think this is impossible to do succinctly – I really could go on about it for evermore.

Mason

I’d vowed to find another use for that name. As part of our Media A-Level course in Year 12, we had to create a promotional campaign for a fictional band or solo artist. This would be comprised of a poster, magazine article and introductory video, all informing the consumer of an upcoming debut album. The instructions were simple enough, but the actual project was anything but. Firstly, however, we each had to come up with names and willing contributors for our acts. Will decided to form a conventional band made up of some of our friends, but I decided to reduce the chances of bandmates not turning up to photoshoots by going solo. As I wasn’t keen on using my own name, thinking it would be pretty boring, I decided to look elsewhere for inspiration, at Noel Gallagher’s High Flying Birds and – of all people – Owl City.

I then came to the realisation that some of the greatest bands in history had a colour in their name – Pink Floyd, Black Sabbath, Deep Purple, Simply Red. With this in mind, I somehow managed to choose yellow, a colour that doesn’t exactly flow from the tongue when paired with a word like “flyover”, which was picked at random. The resulting name for this solo project both looked and sounded ugly, but it would have to do. Besides, there was still embarrassment yet to come. To take the photographs for the poster, Louis and I borrowed Dad’s digital camera and I settled on our hallway as a suitable location. The desk lamp from my room was positioned carefully on the carpet, its red-hot bulb far too close to my face for comfort as I knelt in front of it. Initially, it was the only form of illumination we had in the darkness, until Louis suggested draping a set of fairy lights over me. In retrospect, and after having seen the finished photos more than I’m comfortable with, it was the cheesiest and most terrible idea in all of human history. But I had a (fictional) electronica album to promote, so as far as I was concerned the fairy lights would give the poster just the futuristic feel I was looking for.

They didn’t. I looked completely ridiculous, having achieved nothing that I was aiming for. Rather than being an uber-cool pop star conveying the sci-fi awesomeness of his record, I was a berk in a white T-shirt being blinded by my lamp and humiliated by the lights. The photos we took were used on the finished poster (to the amusement of my teacher), but I severed my creative relationship with Louis after that. Happily, I was much more satisfied with my magazine article, and I’m still very grateful for all of the extra help that Mr Abbott gave me to make sure it was good enough and finished on time. He did the same for the video, an interview that Will and I filmed in my conservatory having already tried and failed to do it out and about in Minehead. On the day of that first attempt, with the (old and pretty rubbish) camera I’d been lent by College apparently fully charged, we went all the way out to my chosen spot only to find the battery was as flat as a pancake. A misleading red light at home had convinced me it was charging, but it had in fact been sitting totally empty overnight. In the end, of course, it was completed, but it wouldn’t surprise me if this was just in the nick of time. That seemed to be the case pretty often throughout sixth form!

Regardless of the obstacles that appeared throughout the process, I told myself I’d keep the Yellow Flyover name in mind for something else. It occasionally becomes a username for an account I’m setting up, but it does mean a little more to me than that. Even though the work was often draining, in terms of socialising with friends I was having some of the happiest times of my life at that point. To think of Yellow Flyover takes me straight back to those times, giving it special significance. That’s why it deserves a blog post and possible use in the future, as a byword for positivity in my life.

Mason

“Are you here for the weekend then?” he said.

“No, I live here”, I replied.

“Oh, sorry mate, I haven’t seen you around before.”

You’d be surprised how infrequent this is. Here I was, sat in the smoking area of a local pub on Saturday night, facing a stranger who hadn’t seen me darting around town or said “bless you” outside a church. It’s always been something that’s intrigued me in a sense – even if people don’t know me personally, it might be that they recognise me in a number of different ways. You’d think it might flatter me that people notice, but in truth I’m not sure how I feel about it, or whether it freaks me out. I didn’t think I was very notable anyway! I was once stopped on the way home from College by an elderly couple, who pulled up alongside me in their car to promptly tell me they’d seen me near my house. That was it. Unfortunately, however, the house they were talking about happened to be in an entirely different part of the town where I live, meaning that they were also talking about an entirely different disabled boy. Despite the case of mistaken identity, I didn’t correct them, instead choosing to let this incredibly cringeworthy meeting pass, for their sake assuming the identity of the other wheelchair guy. Once they’d gone, I wondered whether I should smile at the fact they’d stopped to chat to me or be slightly miffed that they seemed to think all disabled people appeared exactly the same. The couple were clearly well-meaning regardless of the confusion, but it is nevertheless important to remember that disability comes in all shapes and sizes.

Aside from occasionally being lumped in with all other disabled people on the assumption we are all identical, my name has also been a source of frustration over the years. According to various people upon first meeting them I have been Nelson, Nathan, Jason, and even Madison and Mavis (the latter came from one of my teaching assistants). No matter how clearly I say “Mason”, another variation on my real name is never far away. Nelson has probably been the most frequent, and there was a boy in middle school who called me that for at least two years – I couldn’t be bothered to correct him either, and nor could anyone else! To my dismay, no keyring has been able to set the record straight, but I live in hope. Because my name isn’t particularly cool either, Mum and I came up with a cover story that I was named after Pink Floyd drummer Nick Mason. It could be a conversation starter, even if it isn’t true – and I’ve always wondered whether Louis’ name really did come from the credits of The Jerry Springer Show…

Mason