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Kate AnsellTRAINThe first thing I need to say is that I’m not usually like this. There’s a thing when you’re a cripple where everyone assumes you spend your life moaning about being a cripple, and I don’t. Categorically. Most of us don’t, just so you know. We have lives. We hold down jobs, we kiss boys, we kiss girls, we go out, we have fun, we argue with our parents, we hold grudges against our siblings, we get pissed and do ill-advised things with ill-advised people. We do not, most of the time, worry about the simple fact of our crippledom. Usually, there are so many other people doing that for us, it seems like a waste of energy. Sorry. The insecurity and need for self-justification you will have identified there is a feature of the disablified psyche. Maybe. Ask my psychologist. I don’t have a psychologist. Sorry. I definitely apologise too much.  So now that’s straight, I’ll tell you what happened the other day. You see, the other day I was on a train. I live in Brighton and work in London, of course I’m always on bloody trains. And I’m on a train and it’s rush hour and the train’s full because it always is at rush hour, and I go and perch in an empty seat in first class, which is what I always do when that happens. Because I can’t stand for more than a few minutes without getting backache, and the train stops at Clapham and more people get off than on and I can move into standard class. Always. I’ve been doing this a year. No one complains. Not ever. I’ve got a walking stick and I limp and I wobble and it’s fairly obvious what’s going on and why. The other day, though, was the other day. There was a ticket inspector in my carriage. He says, “I have to charge you an upgrade if you sit in first.” I say, “I can't stand and there aren't any seats in standard.” I ask what he suggests. He does not suggest anything. He asks if I have a registered disabled person’s card. ...I think perhaps I will fall over... I tell him I do not. I tell him I don’t think such a thing exists. There are various cards some people do have, mainly in case there’s a medical emergency and ambulance-type people need to know what’s happening, but it’s not like being disabled is a members’ club and they give you a card when you join. I don’t tell him that last bit. I tell him get Disability Living Allowance and ask what a registered disabled person’s card is.He says he doesn’t know. He says it's what the rules say you have to have. Obviously. He asks to see my ticket. I show it to him. It is a ticket. He checks underneath it, presumably in case there’s some kind of disability card I didn’t know about there. There isn’t. I say, “I have a walking stick and a hole in my brain.” I say, “I’m not using my walking stick for fun.” He says, “I know you’re not. I'm just following the rules.” I’m thinking we must be about to get to Clapham and this’ll be over. The train stops. We are nowhere near Clapham. I say, “Help me out, mate.” I never say ‘mate’, usually. This isn’t usual. I say, “I don't want to sit in first class. There's some people in the priority seats who didn't move when I got on. Can you give me a hand with them? This is why those seats are there.” He says, “I'm not authorised to ask them to move.” I say, “What?” He says, “I don't have the authority.” I think it is interesting that he thinks he has the authority to make a disabled girl stand up all the way to Brighton, but he doesn't think he has the authority to ask some non-disabled people to get out of seats they shouldn't be in in the first place. In fact, he doesn’t have the authority to make me stand because there are laws about this kind of thing, laws which I know about and he doesn’t. The problem is that the law isn’t going to stop me getting backache in the next ten minutes. I already have backache. I have pins and needles in my right leg. I think perhaps I will fall over. I always fall over. Some falls are more fun than others. I think maybe it would be fun if I fell over right now. He says, “The conductor can ask them to move.” I say, “Where’s the conductor?” He says, “At the other end of the train.” I say, “I can't walk to the other end of a moving train.” The train is moving again. We are still nowhere near Clapham. He asks if I want to pay for an upgrade or not. I say, “Not.” I ask if he can arrange for me to be stretchered off at Brighton. He says, “Pardon?” I explain that if I have to stand for much longer, I'll need an ambulance at the other end. A bloke somewhere in standard class says I can have his seat. He stands up. I sit down. The inspector looks relieved. We get to Clapham. Lots of people get off, leaving lots of spare seats. Kate Ansell writes Everyone Else Has A Blog. The illustration is by Hong Kong artist and illustrator kahsone who photoblogs at wor.ks.1.ow. I originally came across this as a teeth-gritted piece of dialogue between Kate Ansell and the ticket inspector on Everyone Else Has A Blog and asked Kate if I could use it. Within a few days she sent me this glorious re-written version... 5:36 PM - 14/8/2006 - post comment
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