The Friendly Times

To keep or not to keep, that is the question. As I step away from some voluntary roles, I'm faced with a conundrum. What do I do with all these digital files I've collected over the years?  Part of me wants to go on a deleting spree to clear out the cobwebs, so to speak. But then I pause. These emails and documents are not just clutter. They're a piece of our history, our digital legacy. Think about it. We don't write letters anymore. We write emails—thousands of them. And if we just hit delete, Blam! That history is gone. Future generations will wonder how we lived and communicated. Our digital files could be the key to understanding our world. But here's the catch: Storing all this data comes at a cost. Those big, humming data centres that keep our digital lives afloat are energy guzzlers. They need a lot of water to stay cool, and all of that impacts the environment. So, what's a digital hoarder to do? First things first, take a deep breath. Then, take a good

In the 1990s, I worked with Mary Wilkinson, the editor of  Disability Now,  and Ann Frye, the Head of the Inclusion Unit at the Department of Transport, to advocate for improved compensation for disabled individuals whose wheelchairs were damaged by airlines. This campaign, Flight Rights, aimed to address the inadequate compensation for the damage caused to wheelchair users' equipment.  Almost thirty years later, Channel 4, a UK TV station, aired a compelling documentary hosted by Sophie Morgan that deeply moved and concerned me. Fight to Fly   sheds light on the often degrading and dehumanising experiences faced by disabled individuals, particularly those with severe disabilities, when attempting to fly. This eye-opening exposé highlighted the crucial " Rights on Flights " campaign, which aims to revolutionise air travel for disabled passengers. As someone who believes in the dignity and equality of all individuals and has more than a passing interest in the subject, I a

A recent visit to London's National Theatre to see "Nye," a play about Aneurin Bevan, the National Health Service (NHS) architect, left me with a profound sense of gratitude and contemplation. The portrayal of the man who, after the Second World War, was instrumental in establishing a health system that would become the envy of the world was not just a history lesson but a stark reminder of the value of universal health care and the importance of caring for others. (I contracted polio as a child in 1949; had it not been for the NHS, I would not be writing this article). Amid the relentless news cycle that bombards us with tales of calamity, corruption, greed, hatred and societal stagnation, it's easy to overlook the quiet yet powerful force that holds our communities together. It's the workforce engaged in care, service, and support—a force powered by millions of individuals whose daily work is dedicated to the well-being and safety of others. These are the unsung

Every morning, without fail, Sue takes our dog, Crumble, for a stroll around the neighbourhood. It's their little ritual, a bit of 'me-time' for both. I enjoy the peace and quiet, contemplating the mysteries of the universe or, more likely, just savouring a coffee and relishing the fact that I'm not the one picking up Crumble's "presents" along the way. Sue's walks are more than just walks. They're mini adventures, and she always returns with some local news or a snippet about the progress of the seasons, flooding in the fields, or the latest neighbourhood drama. You know, the real hard-hitting stuff. On this particular day, Sue's curiosity was piqued not by the usual neighbourhood gossip or Crumble's antics (though watching her try to catch a squirrel is always entertaining). No, it was something unusual. As she walked into our drive, she decided on a whim to check the flowerbeds next to her car, probably hoping to find that missing earrin

Today's outing was more of an escapade than your run-of-the-mill shopping trip. Spurred by my wife's vision of a delightful day combining retail therapy with culinary indulgence, we set off for the mall. This isn't just any day out for someone who navigates the world from a wheelchair. Our adventure began promisingly with a parking spot snagged without a hitch. However, the journey from car to store quickly morphed into an unexpected game of dodgeball, featuring parked cars as the main opponents—apparently, they hadn't received the memo about not blocking dropped curbs. This whole experience whisked me back to the '90s, a time when I collaborated with M&S on pioneering retail accessibility. Oh, those were the glory days of innovation, with carpets and acrylic tiles laying down the red carpet (literally) for our visually impaired friends, guiding them through the store with the finesse of a tactile GPS. Fast forward to the present, and it seems we've taken a

Happy New Year! As we welcome this new year, I have been reflecting on the impact of climate change on the lives of disabled people. I have been thinking about how they can take control of their own futures and prepare for the challenges ahead. This has led me to imagine a scenario where I am invited to speak at COP24 in front of leaders and influencers from all over the world. If given the opportunity, I would share a message of hope and empowerment for disabled people. It would go something like this: Ladies and gentlemen, esteemed delegates of COP24, As we welcome 2024, I sit before you as one voice from the twelve million disabled individuals in the UK, a demographic often overlooked yet pivotal in the climate change discussion. Our presence at this juncture is not just symbolic; it is a testament to our potential to shape the environmental debate. Imagine with me, if you will, a future where our cities are more than concrete jungles. A future where green spaces and accessibility c