John Bell and Croydon

“I just need to get my outdoor wheelchair gloves from the top drawer. I will be with you lickety-split.” E.J. bellowed to Dr Patel, her awesome and amazing carer. Dr Patel had arranged the ramp outside. Since buying the Whill C2, getting out of the house was a tad tedious. E.J. parked the wheelchair at the top of the man-made slope. Dr Patel bent down to switch the chair from automatic to manual by clicking the rosy red levers on either side. “Okay. Are you ready?” Dr Patel, asked with a mock serious face. E.J. steadied and braced herself. “We’ll go on the count of three. One, two, three!” Dr Patel pulled the Whill chair with all her might and slowed it down as it descended the ramp. “Please do not forget that the chair has no brakes, so remember to switch back to automatic as soon as we get to the bottom,” E.J. said. Her carer did just that. Dr. Patel passed E.J. her sunflower-yellow leather handbag, embroidered with maroon roses and her midnight-coloured backpack. The latter was hung on the back of the electric chair. The rucksack just happened to be a going-out staple. Filled with Coloplast catheters, disposable gloves, Tena Wash Cream, disinfectant wipes and Pro Skin Tena wipes. Not to mention, an extra pair of trousers in case there was a bladder-related accident.

Dr Patel put the ramp back in the house and they both trekked slash glided to the bus stop almost opposite the house. Five minutes later, the bus arrived. E.J flagged it down and waited patiently till the bus ramp was ready to be mounted. The chair rolled up the short ramp and parked in the designated wheelchair space that is a must for every London bus. About 17 stops later, E.J. pressed the special bell that urges the driver to turn on the ramp. “Did you just see that line outside the Sherlock Holmes Museum? When did people become such Sir Arthur Conan Doyle fans, I wonder?” Dr Patel speculated to herself. Beep. Beep. Beep. A whirring noise echoed as the automated ramp landed on the pavement. “Thank you!” E.J. shouted to the bus driver as she descended. She always expressed gratitude to the bus drivers.  As a Disabled Freedom Pass holder, she did not have to pay any public transport fares so the least she could do was thank the drivers and operators.

As they strolled along Baker Street, searching for a black cab to take them to their final destination, E.J. and Dr Patel discussed last night’s Love Island episode. The fascinating thing about the programme is that it is basically a psychological experiment that tests the Islanders’ emotional reactions and willpower or lack thereof. Watching how the Islanders respond to certain contrived situations is actually quite interesting. “Luca is too fit to be that insecure. The jealousy thing is actually very unattractive.” Dr Patel observed out loud. “I totally agree. Kinda obvious that Gem finds the whole thing very annoying. I mean, I would too,” E.J responded.

As they got to the traffic lights, a black cab was dropping off a couple of passengers round the corner. Dr Patel pounced on the driver ever so politely, to make sure that he knew we were the next travellers to board his vehicle. In a slight Cockney accent, he asked if she needed the ramp. E.J. nodded and assumed the position. She came to the realisation that the reason why taxi drivers ask their disabled passengers if they need the ramp brought out, is because not everyone is completely paralysed. Using a key thingy, the driver unlocked the ramp into place. Dr Patel took the backpack to make the Whill chair lighter. There have been a few times where the chair tilted backwards quite precariously so Dr Patel always lightened the load, if need be, (i.e., the backpack) to avoid that situation from re-occurring. E.J. drove up the slope and turned off the chair once she was all the way in. Her carer hopped into the cab and sat down. She brushed some imaginary lint from her lap and smiled reassuringly at E.J. ‘Tis true indeed that John Bell and Croydon on Wigmore Street was less than ten minutes away, but the rationale for taking a taxi was to avoid being late for E.J.’s chiropodist appointment. The lovely and talented Gillian Michael (aka the chiropodist), had a small clinic at the back of the high-end pharmacy.

“I am going to need you to guide me out of the car,” E.J. said to the driver and her carer. “No problemo,” Dr Patel replied. E.J. turned on the Whill and reversed.  “Wait! You need to pan left a smidge,” Dr Patel said. E.J toggled the wheelchair controller accordingly and continued down the ramp. “Alrighty. Steady. Just keep coming. You are doing great, lovely,” Jim, the taxi driver grinned encouragingly at E.J. A few seconds later, E.J. passed a ten-pound note to cheery Jim and waited for her change. Before he knew what was what, E.J. had placed a two-pound coin in his hand as a tip for his upbeat and helpful nature. “Thanks luv,” he said as he drove away, with a crooked smirk and a wave.

After a brief once over, E.J. identified the accessible entrance and drove through the automatic doors. The cream-coloured marble with gold accents made it very easy to glide around. E.J. kicked the Whill into high gear and sped down two ramps with the most ideal slope gradient. They made their way to the waiting area outside the podiatrists’ office and called Gillian to let her know they had arrived. Forty-five minutes later, E.J’s session had concluded. “We should ask for a disabled toilet, don’t you think?” E.J. said to her carer. Dr Patel went to one of the salespeople and had a short convo. She walked back and let E.J. know the bathroom was just around the corner. They made their way to the facilities. As they swung open the door, a strong whiff of a very unpleasant odour assaulted their senses. “Oh my days! What is that stench?” Dr Patel pinched her nostrils and began to cough. E.J’s eyes welled up with tears. Pieces of soiled toilet roll were strewn across the floor. A yellowish substance was splattered on the toilet seat and the floor. To the untrained eye, it definitely looked (and smelt) like pee-pee.

Shutting the door firmly with the speed of light, E.J and Dr P beelined for the nearest sales associate. “Good afternoon, Amy. Not to sound all persnickety, but your bathroom is really smelly at the moment. You should definitely send someone to clean it as soon as possible,” Dr Patel said really sweetly. Amy smiled graciously and quietly sprung into action. As Dr P and E.J sauntered away, they discussed John Bell’s level of accessibility.

“Not to be fastidious, but I kinda have to adjust the score because of the stinky toilet. The whole pharmacy is so wheelchair friendly, with the smooth marble floors and perfectly inclined ramps. However, even though there is more than enough space to manoeuvre around, the toilet is the same height as the wheelchair seat (making for an easy transfer), the grab rails are ideally placed, and my lap can go under the sink; the depressing state of the facilities forces me to give this place two stars,” E.J analysed. “Fastidious, eh? Someone is really churning out her word of the day,” Dr Patel said teasingly, with a huge smirk. “That’s what you got from my mini-thesis?” E.J guffawed, with gusto. As they ‘strolled’ away towards the automatic doors, their stomachs gurgled simultaneously. A fluke to be sure; but one could consider it a clarion call that Prêt Á Manger had to be the next destination.