The Archive

Thank god for ripples

I love the disabled. I truly do. And not just in a patronising 'aren't they brave' way either. I love them for what they do for me.

Why? Imagine you're hung over at work. Or imagine you're me, either will work. Your head hurts, your stomach is flopping like a landed mackerel and you've got a hundred pounds in your wallet and no idea how it got there (possibilities 1. I actually got £400 out and that's what's left after the hooker, 2. I blew some guy in a public toilet for cash. I'm hoping for 1.).

You would kill for a short lie-down. But you're at work. Where, oh where can you safely lie down in a dark place where there is no risk of disturbance by people who, unaware of the possibilities life and Stella Artois afford, are foolishly getting on with their jobs?

Then it strikes you. Shangri-la, Eden and the Skegness Butlins all rolled into one - the disabled bathroom.

It's huge, easily big enough for a fully grown yet juvenile man to lie down in. It's clean, because there hasn't been a disabled person in my office in the five years I've been here. And it's got a lockable door. James Dyson himself could not have designed a more effective solution to my problems.

So I'm nipping off there now.

The Disabled of Britain - I salute you.

posted by Peter The Great @ 10:56 AM