This week, I was pleasantly surprised to receive an email from a chap called Adam, also in a wheelchair. He’d written simply to say that he had stumbled across this blog by chance whilst surfing the net, and that he’d enjoyed the posts he’d read so far. It was a message that touched me for three reasons. Firstly, it was great to know that Adam hadn’t found the site in an instant and clicked away from it just as quickly. He must have seen something in those first few seconds that encouraged him to read on, which is uplifting indeed. In addition, even though I know it has some kind of readership (however small that may be), it’s always reassuring to hear that someone outside of my immediate friends and family is taking any notice.

The biggest compliment that Adam could have given, however, stemmed from the fact that as he had enjoyed it in general, he must – by extension – have warmed to my writing style, whatever that is. I keep reading that anybody who writes something must then painstakingly edit it afterwards, implying that nothing less than perfection is good enough for anyone. Whilst I understand that edits are not unnecessary, especially when it comes to making sure a half-decent standard of English is used, I also believe in the importance of letting the writer’s true personality and voice show through. After all, who wants their words to sound like they’ve been written by a robot? Deanna once told me that although she thought my posts were good, she also thought they didn’t sound like me – at least as she knew me. Whenever I think of that, I realise that I’m glad to stand by what I write without changing it too much. The posts are products of the moments in which they are written, and to alter them would no longer make them spontaneous creations. I would merely be interfering.

It’s the same with the posts that Will has written recently. His words need to be presented as they are, warts and all. Even if I was to see a mistake, the chances of me correcting it would be slim – even if I do appreciate errors being ironed out. Being true to the author’s character must come above any obsessiveness regarding perfect English, and I’d like to think I’ve successfully adhered to this rule thus far. I’ve tried to write entirely with my genuine voice, and it is very gratifying to know that this is being appreciated by people like Adam. It’s why any praise at all is more special than one might imagine, because I am personally aware that I haven’t betrayed who I am to receive it.

Mason

So, I was in a taxi from my flat in Preston to the train station to visit my sister in Carlisle. ‘Where are you going to?’ He asked.

‘Carlisle,’ I replied.

‘Going on a trip?’

‘No, I live there. I’m visiting home.’

Now, I have a confession to make. I do not live in Carlisle. I live in Somerset, about 6 hours away.

‘So are you a student?’

‘Yes.’

‘What do you study?’

‘History.’

I don’t study History. I do Scriptwriting. But for some reason, I decided to lie. For no apparent reason, I came up with a new life-one I hadn’t lived. For the entire trip after that, I was thinking about how easily I did that. But it’s because conversations with strangers make me so awkward that I say weird things. And strangers always want to have conversations with me. I hate them. Maybe I just have one of those faces.

When I was on the train to Carlisle, I sat down next to a South African man. When I say sat, I mean I tried to cling on to my seat whilst he took up one and a half of them. At first I didn’t hear him, I had earphones in. That’s normally a sign that I don’t want to talk to you. Soon, he started tapping my shoulder and asking me questions. But then he started asking me about my life. I was fine with that until he started talking about which university each one of his family members go to. I tried to act interested, but there’s only so much of the man’s personal life I can take.

I’m not an antisocial person (I think). I’m British. When we go into a shop, we comment on the weather. When someone drops something, we applaud.  But I like talking to people when I have an opportunity to leave. Most of the time I’m cornered in a small place, like a taxi. Especially when they ask a question where there’s a long answer. So I lie. Lying is easier. I’m a writer. Coming up with a story is fun.

There isn’t much of a moral here. People say that the truth comes out. But that’s not entirely correct. Everyone lies, whether to protect someone or themselves. It can kill, but it can also save lives.

I just wanted to mention a few of the things I go through on a regular basis. University is a jumble of strange experiences.

Will

As I write this now from the sofa, I’m looking down at a pile of magazines lying next to my feet. These are copies of Auto Express, which are kindly dropped through the letterbox by a man on our road every couple of weeks or so. Evidently he knows that I’m a petrolhead, and the fact that he thinks of passing the magazines on to me after he’s finished with them is very gratefully acknowledged. Whenever I see a new one in the house I am intrigued, as I always am when I read or watch something car-related, or see it up close. There’s just a small problem – namely that regardless of how interested I am in the car magazines, I regrettably never seem to get around to finishing all of them.

I cannot stress enough how much this annoys me, because I really do want to read of all of them as fully as possible, but it would seem that my own laziness is stopping me from engaging even with something I’m enthusiastic about. I devour countless articles and TV programmes on the subject of the car, and it should therefore be very easy for me to read every issue of Auto Express just as swiftly as I get through every issue of F1 Racing, to which I have had a subscription since 2010. For some reason, however, it never quite happens as planned, even when a copy of the magazine is very close to hand. Auto Express can be found on the kitchen table, in the living room and in my bedroom, and yet perhaps it can be said that in the heat of the moment, when I’m busy surfing the web on my Kindle, it’s easier (thanks to my laziness) to stick with that than to extend an arm and pick up the reading material. That’s a shame, wouldn’t you say? It is something that I had noticed long ago, and I’ve spent some time trying to figure out exactly what has been causing such neglect when there’s no reason for it to happen.

But it’s just down to me, and therefore I need to make sure I cast aside the laziness by reminding myself that I’ll be reading about something I enjoy and that I should put the Kindle down for an hour or so. Doing that will benefit both me and my Mum and Dad, because they won’t get the wrong end of the stick. If they’re reading this, I’d like to reassure them that I really do enjoy Auto Express – it’s just that, as with many things, it takes a while to muster the strength before I can read it. Mark my words, though; that won’t be the case from here on in!

Mason

The Christmas tree is up in our front room for another year, but aside from that I’d say that receiving the certificate for officially completing my archery beginners’ course was a pretty good way to start the festive period. I got it yesterday morning upon attending my first archery session in three weeks, and as soon as I got back onto the shooting line – with my target ten yards in front of me (hence the title) – it felt like I’d never been away. I have a band at home, lent to me by the instructor to help me simulate the action of pulling the bow, and using it helps me to be stronger and improve my shots. I’d made sure to pick it up during the time I’d been away, and it allowed me to work out a good technique to utilise prior to releasing an arrow. As I pulled back, I’d carefully ensure that I was sat up straight so as to avoid slumping and affecting the trajectory of the shot. This can also happen if I’m not holding the bow straight, and my left arm needed to be outstretched as fully as possible. Then came the aim – I’d previously opted not to use a sight, as some of the other people shooting do, and therefore shoot “barebow”. This can give mixed results, as you’re not guaranteed a bullseye even if you point the arrow at the centre. It can therefore pay off to pick an area of the target that, when fired at, will help to guide the arrow towards the gold spot. In my case, this was the bottom right-hand corner of the board, over the black and white rings on the outside. When I’d found this, all I needed to do was pull back about as far as the corner of my mouth, with my elbow straight and raised, and release…

…and somewhat to my surprise, this approach worked. I found yesterday’s session to be among the most consistent I’ve had so far, and all because the majority of shots landed in the gold or inner red areas – which would mean big points if I was scoring! It was a tremendous confidence boost, as it always is, and I was even more pleased when I thought about how I hadn’t been in three weeks. Having completed the beginners’ course, I now need to join the club proper, as well as Archery GB, and I have paid for my membership of both. I don’t know what will come of this in the future yet, but I’m very excited to find out. Let’s just hope I can keep that technique up – I should be fine as long as I keep getting the band out!

Mason

I can’t take this anymore. So many people around me seem to believe that time drags on, and that everything takes too long to happen (although Dad insists that we should never wish our lives away). I should make clear that for me, this has never really been the case. Hours, days, weeks, months and years all pass in the blink of eye, and such swift acceleration has proved a problem so far this month – at least where this blog is concerned. As you will have noticed, tomorrow is the last day of November, and save for one post a few weeks ago and another written recently by Will, I have had no proper ideas for material at any point in the entire month.

Usually, when I come to write a post, I like to try and visualise the first and last few sentences. That way I can get the gist of what I want to say, and this generally allows me to fill the gap in between. Recent times, however, have really seen me clutching at straws. I simply haven’t been able to see a first or last line anywhere in my mind, and what I have come up with has been forced and born out of pure desperation. It kept occurring to me that if I let November roll on like this, going as quickly as a month always does for me, I would finish it with only two posts – as was the case in October as well. Such neglect of this blog does not sit well with me as even when I do have very little to write about, I feel like I can’t leave what is almost my life’s work. I started a journey when I began writing in August last year, one that has allowed me to tell many great stories – some from previously unexplored parts of my mind – and hear lots of very lovely words from the people who have read and appreciated it. Why would I want to give up the uplifting feelings that these things have brought? I wouldn’t – but I can never predict when or where the creative juices might stop flowing. It happens suddenly and without mercy, and you can spend so long obsessing over not being able to follow an idea through that the moment will pass and enthusiasm for it will be lost. That’s why I wish time passed more slowly sometimes – it would allow me to be calmer and clearer about an idea without any of the worry associated with it. I wouldn’t have to worry that I was neglecting this blog by not committing to the smallest concept, and most importantly I wouldn’t have to publish something slightly random like this!

Mason

Hey guys, Will here for yet another cameo. This time around, I wanted my post to be something more personal. I’m here to tell a couple of stories about Mason. Now, over the 5+ years of friendship, Mason and I have had enough misadventures that most of them are like one big montage. But there are a couple of tales that I wanted to reveal.

The first story regards Mason’s ability to traverse obstacles. As you might know, Mason is bound to a wheelchair, but that usually does not halt him from going where he damn well pleases. Trust me, I’ve been shocked many a times by his ability to sneak up on me. His capability often makes me forget about his wheelchair. This story is set in our youthful era, when we were heading from school into town. In order to get to the other side of the road, Mason had to of course get onto it. Now, the majority of the time this is a doddle-he just wheels his way to a slope in the pavement. However, this particular stretch of road was poorly maintained, with a quite an awkward steep incline between the edge of the pavement and the actual road. I hadn’t seen this, and clearly, neither had Mason. Because he chose to assail this obstacle head on. I was too busy walking ahead, chatting to two other old school friends. The next thing I heard were a couple of high-pitched expletives behind me. I turned around to be greeted with four wheels, all not touching the floor. Mason’s wheelchair was on its proverbial backside, leaving Mason helpless to do anything but do a bit of cloud-spotting. I have to admit (and this site’s owner will testify to this) that I am not an expert in showing concern in these situations. Seeing the sight of this wheelchair about to take off like a space shuttle had me creased up laughing, whilst trying to help my beached best friend. I was relieved however to see that Mason had found it even funnier. That’s the best thing about our friendship. Any crisis easily becomes less of one because we’re too busy crying with laughter about it. Mason sees the bright side of any situation, which can pull you through even the darkest of days. And with some work, we had been able to right his wheelchair, and were able to proceed to our destination.

The second story is one that might make you think less of me. And I mean a lot less. Mason has made a lot of references to his love of Formula 1. I myself, however, have never been able to see the appeal. A bunch of vehicles going round and round very fast isn’t my perfect idea of entertainment. But one Summer’s day, I decided to give it a try. In Mason’s wheelchair. With my best friend in a static chair, I relieved him of his traditional mode of transport and decided to drive round and round the Sixth Form Common Room. All of a sudden, I found the appeal in racing, although most of the professional drivers didn’t have to pinch the car they’re about to drive. I was having great fun, and I’m sure even Mason was warming to the concept of me having a test drive. That was until I lost control of his wheelchair and crashed into a whole row of chairs. Whilst I was perfectly happy to proceed with my joyride, Mason decided that I was henceforth banned from driving his wheelchair ever again.

In the several years I’ve known Mason, he’s never once complained about his struggles. The things he has endured and achieved has taken bravery and determination. I will forever be in awe of the way he’s adapted despite the hardship dealt to him. If I was in his shoes, I would be the most miserable and cynical person in the world. Oh, wait, I already am…

So those are just two drops of memories within a whole ocean of our friendship. This ignored all of the national scandals, conversations and other antics we’ve been involved in. Mason, if you’re reading this, here’s to many more, pal.

Will

As I may or may not have mentioned before, Doctor Who was a big influence when it came to my decision to become a writer. For so many reasons, there’s no other series quite like it on television, and it would take me quite some time to go into them all (I wrote an essay for my A Level coursework describing quite a few). But alongside all of the stories, planets, characters and other elements that everyone knows make it so great, there are smaller things that are also capable of leaving a fan on the edge of their seat. For the entirety of the show’s original run, from 1963 to 1989, each adventure was broadcast as a serial which would usually be between two and six episodes in duration – although the longest in its history was the mammoth 14-part The Trial of a Time Lord, broadcast in 1986. Week after week, audiences of up to 13 million would wait with baited breath for each instalment of a story, and at the end of each part there would often be a cliffhanger featuring the good Doctor or another character in a certain predicament, which they would duly escape in the next episode.

Whether I find them in Doctor Who or elsewhere, cliffhangers have always fascinated me. I like the challenge involved in creating a serialised story that can successfully maintain consumer interest, sometimes over a long-term period. If anything can tell you that you’ve written a good story, surely it’s that? And who could resist the opportunity to leave an audience yearning for more, keeping their hunger for a creation alive? It’s questions like that which encourage me to write something similar, where a character goes on a journey with many twists and turns along the way. I once considered doing a Twitter account, parallel to my own, that followed the trials and tribulations of a fictional character, but I eventually decided that the mere 140 characters allowed per tweet wouldn’t allow for quite enough development. I then wondered whether I could create a blog for the same thing, but I got worried about neglecting this one whilst concentrating on it. At the moment, therefore, my options seem to be few, but I could one day make a podcast as a relatively simple alternative to the methods mentioned above. It’d be nice to release one every week, or in another set pattern, and see if anyone was hooked by it. I’d need some help, but I certainly wouldn’t discount it – watch this space!

Mason

On three rather early mornings a week, from Tuesday to Thursday, just before I leave the house to go to work, I sit on a chair in my hallway to put my socks on (my shoes are a little bit more difficult to manage, so I have help with those). As you will all know, this is a simple, run of the mill task that most people do every day and it’s just the same for me, except for the fact that I’ve recently started finding it harder and harder to bring my feet up to meet the sock or extend my legs. They’re starting to feel generally weaker as my hamstrings contract and tighten due to what I will admit has been a lack of exercise. Since my hamstring-lengthening operation nearly six years ago now, I probably haven’t been putting in the effort to achieve results, and the difficulties in extending my legs away from the chairs I’m sitting on seem to demonstrate that I’m in danger of becoming – as my physiotherapists have warned in the past – quite literally “chairshaped”.

This realisation has coincided with many hours spent alone in my house on my days off, not quite being able to bring myself to go out due to either a lack of available company or indecisiveness over what I could do if I did. In the absence of outdoor trips, then, perhaps I could think about resuming the simple steps suggested to me to help my legs. A little while ago, Mum and Dad came up with the idea of me just lying on the carpet, maybe watching TV or reading a book, for around half an hour or so each time with my legs stretched out and my feet resting on a chair or the edge of the sofa. It was something that was very hastily done at first, but trust me, it works! When I first did it, I aimed for the aforementioned half-hour. Then I did it again, for 45 or 50 minutes, and although I don’t think I’ve continued with it since, it was encouraging. I never knew that something so effective could be done with only a cushion and a comfy surface to put my feet on. I like cushions and comfy surfaces, as do we all, so why did I ever stop?

I’ve just got to try to remember to keep that procedure in mind when I’m home from work and am without much else to do. It might be straightforward and not as exciting as some of the things I could otherwise be doing, but surely it’s better to do something that will physically be more positive for me than twiddling my thumbs ever will?

Mason

Once upon a time, in no particular house on no particular street, there lived two shakers who spent every hour of every day in a cupboard together. There was an orange shaker who was filled with salt – we’ll call him Orange – and he loved nothing more than a nice cuddle with his best friend, a green pepper shaker who we’ll call Greenie. They’d known each other all their lives. They were made in the same place, by the same craftsperson with very skilled hands and a very kind heart. She decided that she would mould them as two human figures, both with their arms outstretched, so that when anybody slotted them together they’d be locked in a passionate embrace. It was this that meant they weren’t like your average pair of salt and pepper shakers, because there was never any space between them, and as any being knows, be they human, animal or china condiment container, it’s very easy to strike up a firm friendship if you spend that much time with another soul. Indeed, right from the very start – and before they even knew what their destiny was – Orange and Greenie had a very good feeling about each other.

Now, because the two shakers were different colours, the family they lived with could easily distinguish between which carried salt and which carried pepper. They were both therefore given two very distinct things to provide to the meals on the table, but even though they were both very proud of their individual jobs, they were also very proud of each other, and Orange was always ready to encourage Greenie at any moment, or Greenie to encourage Orange. As you would expect, there were an awful lot of hugs between the two. “Don’t worry”, Orange would find himself saying. “I’m sure they’ll want pepper on their tea tomorrow.” The shakers always treated one another as equals regardless of their differences, but after a while there was no denying that the family seemed to prefer more salt on their food than pepper. The latter wasn’t always suitable for a meal, so Orange found himself in use more and more often, with meant Greenie found himself being left all alone in the cupboard, with no best friend to hug, more and more often.

Poor little Greenie.

At first, he was sad, and still just as happy to see Orange again when he was put back into the cupboard. The hugs continued, day after day, week after week, but one day Greenie decided they weren’t quite the same anymore. He began to feel resentment that Orange was wanted more, that he now appeared to be number one shaker. He was beginning to reconsider whether he really wanted Orange to be his best friend. “After all”, he thought to himself, “isn’t orange a stupid colour? And who wants to be friends with a shaker that’s scratched and chipped, and not perfect and clean like me? I don’t really see any reason to like him at all.”

The next time Orange was put back into the cupboard after another successful salting, Greenie wasn’t there to welcome him as he usually would. Orange could see him in the corner, his back turned amongst the Marmite and the mustard jar. Greenie would spend hours in the shadows, staying silent, and when Orange tried to find out what he’d done wrong, Greenie would say how much he hated him because he was a salt shaker, orange, or chipped and scratched and imperfect. These comments were mean and hurtful, and they took their toll on Orange. His arms quickly started to droop, as he didn’t feel the happiness he needed to give those cuddles, and more chips and scratches started to appear on his body, even though he wasn’t being dropped by Mum or Dad as much. He was well and truly losing his sparkle, but even though he missed being happy, he missed his best friend considerably more.

The silence and nasty comments continued for many weeks, until one day when Orange and Greenie found themselves alone together once again. Mum had cleared the cupboard out and for the first time in a while, there was no Marmite or mustard jar for Greenie to hide behind. Orange knew this was it. He had to bite the bullet.

“Greenie? What’s wrong with being different?”

Greenie slowly and reluctantly turned to face Orange.

“Because you’re orange, and a salt shaker, and chipped and scratched and imperfect.”

“That’s not a very good answer.”

Greenie, now completely stumped, turned back to face the darkened corner of the cupboard, trying to avoid Orange’s gaze.

“None of that is important, Greenie.”

With that, Greenie took a moment to look around himself at their surroundings. Everything else was gone, and it was just them, like it had been in the old days when they spent hours hugging one another, not giving a single thought to any differences between them.

“Don’t you see?” said Orange. “It shouldn’t matter whether you’re human, an animal or a china condiment container, whether you’re orange, green, red, purple, yellow, black, white or any other colour, or whether you’re chipped or scratched or imperfect in any way. Everybody should love and respect each other, no matter who they are or what paths their lives take.”

Orange paused, and in an instant he could feel his arms gaining strength, and some of his chips and scratches and imperfections beginning to heal. He had a good feeling about this, just like he always used to. Then, he had an idea. It was worth a shot.

“Hug?”

Greenie stirred. He turned back to Orange, slowly but surely, and his arms, previously sternly folded in defiance, began to gain strength too and outstretch as they always had done, ready to embrace his partner. He advanced towards Orange, a smile gradually crossing his face. Then, all of a sudden, a bright light dazzled both shakers as the cupboard door opened. The warm hand of Mum or Dad entered to grasp the pair, and as the fingers closed around Greenie and Orange, they were pushed back together and Greenie realised just how much he’d missed his connection with Orange as he gazed into his friend’s eyes and smiled wider. For Orange, the feeling was mutual and the smile reciprocated. In the warm grip of the hand, they made a quiet pledge never to fall out again, ready to put all of their disagreements behind them as they were taken out of the darkness and into the light – two becoming one for good.

The End

Mason

 

 

The other day, I saw a man become so engrossed in his sausage roll that he stepped out into the road, a second after the traffic lights had turned to green, and found himself narrowly avoiding becoming an interesting new bonnet ornament for an Aston Martin Cygnet. The driver slammed on the car’s brakes and came face to face with someone who had, in a crowded urban area, made rather a twit of himself, with his pastry snack still firmly in hand. No horns were beeped and no commotion was made. The man crossed the road and the Aston carried on its merry way. No harm done.

Having seen the whole thing, however, I couldn’t help but smile because I could see myself in this bloke. Maybe that’s how I’ll go one day, by not paying attention whilst my eyes are busy being bigger than my belly. I love food, be it a sneaky Mini Roll from the cupboard when everyone is out or a full Sunday roast lovingly prepared by Mum or Dad. I always maintain that as far as I’m concerned, the roast forms part of the Holy Trinity of meals, taking pride of place alongside a well-made curry and any kind of pizza. I haven’t yet been taught to cook anything (which I’ll have to be if I go to uni) so eating food tends to appeal to me more than making it. Alongside my ever-growing appetite, however, lies an appreciation for food helping me to connect with my friends.

Whenever I meet up with someone, the chances are we’ll go for a meal. I do believe good food adds to the camaraderie we already have, and in some cases it can help us to catch up with people we haven’t seen in a while. I bumped into an old friend on the bus to work last week, someone I hadn’t seen that often for the best part of two years. It was like some people say – there are certain friends from whom you might find yourself separated for a little while, because you’re just living your own individual lives, but when you meet again it’s as if you were never apart. We have that kind of connection, and on this particular day it just so happened that we also found ourselves together on the bus home. During the journey we hatched a plan – spontaneously, too, and that’s how all the best plans come about. “Let’s go for a pizza!” I said, and we did just that. The takeaway was heaven, and it was great to be able to continue the first good chinwag we’d had in some time. Therefore, the whole thing only cemented my belief in food and the good it can do for people’s relationships. It’s just a shame he wouldn’t let me pay for it, but I have promised I will return the favour next time!

Mason