Far Escape

Sometimes I do what I do because it's what I want to do.

Sometimes disability has nothing to do with it.

Sometimes like when ...

... I was on the couch. I was in my housecoat. The night was blustery, the wind howled in protest at the cold. The fireplace was flickering an electric dance. I was covered in layers of blankets. A big, hot cuppa of tea was steaming beside me. The Christmas tree lights were on. John Crichton, appearing in my home via DVD, was in mortal danger, and paused on the television looking pained at the interruption. My finger was poised over the 'play' button on the remote control. Joe had gone for a 'rest break' and I was comfortably waiting his return.

On his way back, Joe stopped, called by the computer, to look at the screen as he passed by my desk. "Oh, Dave," he said, "Someone wants you to pop onto the computer for a few minutes to chat on messenger."

I called to him, "Tell them I'm on the couch."

He called back, "They really want to chat with you right now."

I called to him, "Tell them that I'm on the couch and really comfortable, we can talk later."

I heard him type in my message and then read the response. He came in and sat down with me and we hit play on the DVD and John aided by his friends on Moya managed to escape his danger. I did note that the way he rubbed his neck, looked as if he'd gotten a crick from being on pause for so long.

At the next break, Joe told me that the person who had wanted to talk to me said they understood that it would take a lot of work to 'tranfer' from the couch to the desk chair.

Oh.

I didn't go to the computer because I didn't want to. I was really comfortable, the day had been long, I was relaxing, I don't feel that I have to respond instantly to instant messages. Sometimes it's about just being warm, and cosy, and comfortable.

It's amazing that people give to disability what doesn't belong to disability.

Sometimes a couch is just a couch.

And.

Sometimes I do what I do because it's what I want to do.