Victoria and Albert

“Mama! Mama! Could you please turn on the fan in my room? Just getting some cold Evian from the fridge. Please and thank you.” E.J bellowed, whilst wiping the droplets of sweat from her forehead. She parked her Whill C2 electric wheelchair in front of the ice box and grabbed the bottle of water from the bottom shelf. She took a few huge gulps and adjusted her strappy crop top.

Climate change is an absolute biatch and a half, she thought to herself. London’s sweltering heat wave had lasted the entire week. Temperatures had climaxed into the mid-30s; the highest in recent years. Summer was now an actual disparate season and definitely in full swing; no longer a one-week occurrence in one’s hopeful imagination. Tourists and indigenes alike were decked out in flip-flops and sunnies, vibrating at a very blissful frequency, excited that the sun was smiling down at them.

All one could see were intense blue skies and marshmallow clouds. The city’s unique and extraordinarily splendid architecture, revered by many, somehow seemed even more beautiful. The Victorian and Georgian columns were cast in sunbeams. The manicured lawns in the parks were flooded with picnic wicker baskets, unleashed doggies in various squatting positions, bouncing ponytails of the hard-core, enthusiastic joggers unfazed by the extreme warmth and miniature youngsters playing any kind of field sport imaginable, not counting Ultimate Frisbee (kidding, of course. Or am I?).

My mother had turned on the Dyson Cool Tower in my room before heading up to the en-suite bathroom to stare at her reflection and put the finishing touches on her face. In her world, this meant over-dabbing her MAC Studio Fix powder just a tad too much, especially in her T-zone. Luckily, my sister had corrected her mistake.

All was well in Whoville once again. “Dr Patel! Could you please get my Someday Somewhere sunglasses from the cupboard? You know, the one with the rose gold rims?” E.J. shouted at a relatively high volume, hoping to get her carer’s undivided attention. Dr Sweta Patel was E.J’s carer on the English shores. She hailed from Gujarat and had a PhD in Childhood Psychology from Christ University back in Bangalore. She had moved to England towards the end of last year after her husband got a better paying job at Guy’s and St. Thomas.

With the rising cost of living, an unfortunate side effect of the pandemic, Dr Patel and her hubby knew they could not really afford their modest hoi polloi lifestyle in rupees anymore. Hence, the resettlement to a modern three-bedroom flat in the Barnet borough of Colindale. Earning a more lucrative remuneration in British Pounds was definitely ideal pecuniary motivation for crossing an ocean to set up a European domicile. She became E.J’s carer about three months ago, after the former was discharged from a nine-day stint in the private patient unit in the Royal National Orthopaedic Hospital, Stanmore.

E.J. turned round the corner at the end of the corridor into her bedroom and grinned widely at her walnut-skinned carer. Dr Patel was a nickname E.J came up with after building a kittenish rapport with the beautiful but coltish Hindi caregiver, over a respectable fortnight. Sweta became affectionately known as Dr Patel as soon as E.J. knew that she had a PhD. The moniker change was a way of respecting and paying homage to Sweta’s intellectual achievement. After all, specialising in a topic of interest for four years and gaining a doctorate due to an intense scholarly ambition, fully realised on the day of graduation, was indeed no small feat. E.J wanted to honour that pursuit of higher education. Culmination – Dr Patel was born.

The next double decker bus was arriving in ten minutes and it took at least four to get the lightweight aluminium ramp ready and to get out of the house in a timely manner.

The 189 was fairly regular but one could never foresee the sporadic delays that sometimes plagued the intricately efficient London’s public transportation system. With her trendy pair of sunglasses perched slightly precariously on her head and a 75cl bottle of Evian placed in the wheelchair basket underneath the memory foam cushioned seat, E.J brushed off the pieces of lint from her high-waisted, full-length skirt with a thigh high slit.

Rocking a two piece required a level of confidence that only manifested itself after the meticulous application of Laura Mercier, MAC and Pat McGrath beauty products. Lipstick of choice – a non-formulaic mixture of Ruby Woo and Bridgerton-inspired Rouge. Impeccable isn’t an apt enough description.“Guys, we have about eight minutes before the 189 makes its next debut,” my sister screamed from the top of the stairs.

The pitter patter of feet down the carpeted steps created a disharmonious cacophony as they descended the staircase. Dr Patel had already set up the ramp at the front door, waiting patiently outside, staring absentmindedly at the red brick exterior of the house. Twenty years later, it still looked pretty good. E.J. glided down the gradual gradient of the manmade slope. Her mum and hermana were just a step behind. Fortunately, the bus stop was only a few yards away. Rays of sunshine on a stifling hot day like this almost always equated to a horde of tourists frantically searching for blank space on the over-saturated wall of Abbey Road Studios.

Much to all drivers’ chagrin, the sightseeing out-of-towners periodically stopped to pose in the middle of the zebra crossing. Poses made famous by the musical OG British invaders – The Beatles. Intrepid globetrotters from all the world journeyed across miles of ocean waters to pay their respects to this revered tourist destination.

Despite living down the road from the famed lyrically mellifluous atelier over the last two decades, there was never any innate desire to venture to the ever increasingly popular spot. Weird, I know!The four of them strolled towards the stop. In one of the rare moments of timely serendipity, the 189 just so happened to be charging towards them. E.J. stuck out her arm and flagged down the bus. She waited for the mechanical ramp to plop down onto the pavement in front of her.

The doors opened, letting some passengers disembark quickly. A few of them smiled, all friendly-like at E.J, as they passed by. E.J. slowed down the Whill’s speed so she could safely mount and glide up the ramp to park in the designated wheelchair “parking space,” on the bus. That was the awesome thing about London public omnibuses; they are all juridically required to be disabled friendly.

Even the older versions were modified.About forty-five minutes later, they were at the accessible Cromwell Road entrance of the Vic and Albert Museum. E.J. drove up the smooth, perfectly inclined concrete ramp, completely enthralled by the sheer magnificence of the Gothic accents that were a vital part of the building’s complex architecture.

“Selfie time!” E.J. said, already getting her mobile out of her gifted Aspinal of London handbag. E.J actually perfected her selfie game shortly after the accident because at the time, she was not comfortable taking full-length photographs of herself. The key to an excellent self-picture was finding the right, most complimentary angles possible.

The perfect angle could make you slimmer, more toned, elongate your waist, face or even brighten your smile, without any need for filters or Facetune. Dr Patel, E.J’s mum and sister all crouched round the Whill and smiled up at the camera. Content with their inspection of the rapid-fire number of images, they opened the door to the museum and entered the foyer. After perusing the list of exhibitions, they decided to start their admiration carnival in the Renaissance exhibit.

Next, golden Buddhas in different significant positions, then Ancient Japan, China, Korea and finally Rome. They had a couple of hours to admire pieces in the different rooms. E.J and her sister, both studied Fine Art in secondary school, so their camera replicated images had a little something extra. A hint of semi-professional finesse. Her sister, especially, was an artistic savant, in more ways than one.

She always had very interesting ocular perspectives.“OMG! David!” Dr Patel exclaimed a little too loudly. The rest of the quartet rushed to find Clemente Papi’s impressive, faithful cast of Michelangelo’s David. Silence fell, washing over the room. Even though it was a faithful copy of the original masterpiece, the replica (donated by Queen Victoria in the 19th Century) was no less stunningly breath-taking in its beauty. “This…is…awe-inspiring, for lack of a better word,” E.J stated, staring up at the iconic sculpture.

“Actually, I have a brilliant idea for a photo op. Stand in front of the statue, cross your arms and look up, like you are mesmerised by its splendour and grandeur, which you are.” Dr Patel followed the expressed instructions to a T and even struck some maverick poses of her own. “All for the Gram,” E.J teased, mostly because Sweta social media savviness was virtually non-existent.

A voice from the hidden speakers said that the museum would be closing in half an hour. “Dr P, that’s how cue. Let us find the accessible toilet ASAP. We wouldn’t want to be the last ones in here.” Sweta looked around for a volunteer or tour guide to show them where the bathroom was. It would be a faster process than figuring out the signage.

As luck would have it, an older, friendly-looking gentleman with a pleasant demeanour was walking past at that very moment. “Excuse me, Sir. Could you please tell us where the nearest disabled toilets are?” Once they got the directions, Dr Patel and E.J. rolled through the café and souvenir shop, down a couple of ramps till they finally ended up at toilet. After a cursory inspection, Dr Patel satisfied with the facility’s level of cleanliness, placed the bags on top of the changing table.

After a scrub down with antibacterial wipes, of course.“So, what did you think of your time at the V & A?” Dr Patel questioned gently, whilst bringing out the stuff E.J needed to empty her bladder. “Ï absolutely loved it! Everywhere was completely accessible. The ramps have the perfect gradient. The toilet is even the ideal height eliminating the need to scale a split-level transfer. You will never guess how many disabled toilets are so much lower than they should be. It is all gravy when you are going down but a total biatch when you are transferring back up onto the wheelchair seat.

A simple solution – consult an actual, real-life wheelchair user,” E.J said, in an exaggerated tone of exasperation, complete with a shrug. Dr Patel giggled at E.J’s larger-than-life gesture. Twenty minutes later, they were done in the bathroom and joined the others in the majestic corridor.