So who said England was the first world? A couple of weeks ago I had to send my wheelchair off for some repairs. It had to go back to the factory in Birmingham, so I came up with a cunning plan. I got the factory to arrange for a courier to collect the chair on Monday, they would receive it on Tuesday and have Wednesday to work on it. Then I would drive up on Thursday to check that all was well and collect it. Straightforward enough.

They couldn't give me a specific time on Monday, but I had some work to do anyway so I could live with having to hang around for most of the day. And hang around I did. By 430 I was becoming a bit bored with hanging around so I phoned the factory, who phoned the courier. And of course nothing happened.

First thing Tuesday morning I phoned the factory back who assured me that today was the day! I explained that I really needed to go out on Tuesday afternoon so this morning needed to be the morning. This was relayed to the courier who duly phoned me directly and said it would be so. The morning came, and the morning went -- nothing! By now my sense of humour was through security checks, customs & the departure lounge and half way back to Africa. So I got back on the phones to be told on no less than 3 occasions that "the driver is just pulling up outside your house", only for him to magically vanish instantaneously. Really, did they think I wouldn't notice? Anyway to cut a frustrating story short the chair was eventually collected at 5 o'clock on Tuesday afternoon. This meant that a factory should get the chair on Wednesday and we should be just about good for the work being done by Thursday.

So bright and early on Wednesday morning the doorbell goes and ……………………. the courier tries to deliver my chair back to me! To make things worse it was the very same driver who collected the bloody thing the previous evening!?! Did he really think all I was in need of was was overnight storage? I first pointed out that I was the sender and not the addressee and then suggested that we abandon the whole thing. At this point the driver informed me that he was unable to release the chair to me because I wasn't the addressee!

After no small amount of shouting on my part it was put on some sort of express delivery and arrived at the factory that evening. So, having lost all faith in humanity I set out on Thursday with very little optimism in my soul only to be very pleasantly surprised to discover that they had pulled out all of the stops and managed to just about get the work done by the time I arrived.

It's reassuring to know that I am still surrounded by genius!

The Holiday Part Two -- Transport

Whenever I start thinking about a trip the issue of transport looms fairly large on my planning horizon. Finding a vehicle where I can travel in my wheelchair and avoid having to transfer in and out of cars is not as easy as it may sound. So imagine my delight when my folks announced their intention to bring their kombi down to South Africa for pretty much the duration of my stay. (This van has been kitted out with the necessary ramps & lockdown points to accommodate my chair.) They were due to arrive a couple of days after me, but Mike had organised to borrow another kombi off Rod -- a friend of his -- for those couple of days. So, all sorted then?

When, I ask you, has The Life of Brian ever been that simple? I mean did Frodo Baggins simply jump into the back of a cab, shout "Mordor Central -- the ring return department, mate" before getting stuck into the "You and Your Feet" pull out colour supplement of Hobbit Monthly? No, exactly! So, if you feel up to it Brace yourself and read on!?!

Things certainly started well. Mike picked me up in Rods kombi and the first weekend passed without a hitch -- although the ramps I was using were precarious to say the least. A touch on the short side and dangerously slippery when wet. My folks also arrived with their kombi as planned on the Tuesday before Easter. So far so good.

So on Wednesday morning we sent my dad off to get Rods van valeted & filled up with petrol. We then went in convoy and dropped off Rods van, collected Mike's car (which Rod had borrowed), dropped Mike's car off at his office and headed home. On the way home we noticed that something wasn't quite right with the kombi. Sort of jerking and misfiring -- the timing perhaps? Mindful of the long weekend ahead we decided to take it in the following day to get it looked at.

Thursday was tedious. Imagine being stuck in Four Ways Mall (a big shopping centre north of Johannesburg) pretty much all day while the mechanics at the VW dealership "fixed" the problem. ‘Nuff said! The only thing that kept me sane was the prospect of dinner with Joni and the ex-Liptonian reprobates that evening. Eventually the car was returned to us with a brand-new set of spark plugs that were supposed to be the solution to all our problems.

Full of confidence we set out that evening for a night of revelry -- only to come to a shuddering halt in the middle of Johannesburg! Putting to one side the fact that I was now stuck in the hijackers number-one vehicle of choice in one of the top three murder capitals of the world, I started trying to make contact with the AA. I got hold of Joni & Gareth who offered to phone for me. I believe the conversation went something like this:

"Hallo, my name is Gareth, but I'm phoning on behalf of a friend who is a member of AA UK ……………. United Kingdom…………………… England yes. His name is Brian. No, I'm Gareth. Yes, I'm a member. No, I'm not broken down, it's Brian who is broken down. Yes, he is a member but in the UK, sorry England. No, he is not broken down in England, it's here in Johannesburg…………………………" And So on and so forth. I'm sure you get the idea!

Against all odds an AA man eventually did arrive, but not before Gareth. Mr AA took one look at it and declared that the spark plugs leads were in fact the culprit. He added that the honourable gentleman at the esteemed VW dealership might want to visit the optician as, in his humble opinion, a pair of spectacles may be in order -- or words to that effect! While he didn't have replacement leads for us he was sure that a 24 hours spares shop he knew of would. So a plan was hatched whereby Gareth would tow us to the restaurant, drop me off and then go to the spares place with Pierre (my PA) who would then fit the leads and normal transport services would be resumed.

The plan got off to a good start when I made it to the restaurant and started drinking (wouldn't you?). However after driving half an hour across town, Gareth and Pierre succeeded only in establishing that the spares shop was out of kombi leads! By the time they got back they definitely needed a drink. So now it was my turn to speak to the AA:

"Hello my name is Brian, I'm a member of the AA UK……………….. United Kingdom……………….. England yes. The vehicle registration? It's a Zimbabwean vehicle. Yes, I'm broken down but not in Zimbabwe and not in England but here in Johannesburg……………." etc etc!

Fortunately we were having dinner with one of the owners of the restaurant, so she was able to ensure that the Bar remained open until the AA tow truck arrived at 1:30 a.m., which was nice. I was then loaded into the kombi which was then loaded on top of the tow truck and off we sped, and just about made it home in one piece.

Of course the next day was Good Friday so South Africa was closed.

Ppprrrrrrrrtt! Half-time! This seems like an appropriate point at which to take a (well-deserved) break. So everyone, back to the changing rooms for drinks & orange segments -- prepared earlier by the PE teachers -- and be back here in, say 10 minutes? Right? Right……………………………………….. Okay, everyone back? Are you all ready? Right. Ppprrrrrrrrtt! Play on!

So on Easter Saturday morning I phoned the VW dealership. I passed on Mr AA's comments about the spectacles. I also added my opinion on the efficacy of the time & money we had spent with them the previous Thursday, and my appreciation at being afforded that uniquely South African "anticipation of hijack" experience -- or words to that effect! Let's just say that a man with a van was dispatched.

Of course it was always going to be too much to expect the VW dealership to actually have the leads we needed. Fortunately I was able to track them down at a spares shop that happened to be open. The man (with van), the leads and the immobile kombi were assembled and the leads installed. Ta-da? And? Nothing, nada, bugger all! After much head scratching and a couple of phone calls the conclusion was reached that nothing could be done until Tuesday when the garrage opened again.

An emergency call was put through to Rod who most graciously gave us the loan of his van again.

Over the weekend we constructed a cunning, if convoluted plan to tow the kombi into the garrage on Tuesday. For some reason my Dad decided to try starting it first thing in the morning and, hey presto, it started first time. The plot thickens. The towing plan was abandoned and my folks drove the kombi to the garrage. They crawled over it pretty much all day, found nothing amiss and eventually pointed an accusatory finger at the immobiliser which "must be faulty". Unfortunately for us they couldn't check, fix or override said immobiliser (despite it being a factory fitted VW immobiliser). They could however proudly point us in the direction of someone they thought who could.

All that said, the kombi seemed to been working fine again. Bear in mind that all of this was going on against the backdrop of a game of "musical cars" between my folks (who were staying with me in Mike's old house) and Mike & Tanya (who were staying in the new house). There was also the small matter of building a venue for the wedding -- but more about that another time!

So on Wednesday morning we sent my dad off to get Rods van valeted & filled up with petrol. Deja vu anyone? Sean was arriving that day and needed fetching from the airport. Instead of dropping Rod's kombi off on the way to the airport as intended I decided to wait until we got back, just in case. When we came to another shuddering halt, this time on the William Nicol off ramp, I felt justified!

The kombi was coaxed back into life and Sean & my Dad took it off to the immobiliser specialist. They weren't able to do anything, but sent them in the direction of another VW dealership. Sean & Dad didn't make it! Mike was dispatched with a tow rope.

Thursday was a public holiday and once again South Africa was closed.

On Friday the AA were summoned (I'm guessing you can work the conversation out), who took the kombi to the new improved VW dealership. When the phone call came we learned that the fuel gauge was faulty and the tank was empty. Now, before you collapse in guffaws of laughter consider this. The cars malaise was most definitely intermittent. I have run out of petrol before and trust me it's not an intermittent thing!

To cut what is becoming a tediously long story short, after a protracted teleconference between Sean (new house), me (old house) and mechanic (VW dealership) a thing called an altitude sensor was identified as a potential villain. Of course the dealership didn't have one of these to hand and would have to order it. In the meantime we could have the kombi back.

I was starting to get a little weary of being towed home, so I decided to stick with Rod's kombi for the time being. As a result I actually made it to the wedding under my own steam.

So on the Wednesday after the wedding (two days before I left) I went with Dad to the new VW dealership. The altitude sensor had indeed arrived. A small black plastic device no more then 3cm square that was fitted in less time than it takes to smell your own fart!

The kombi has run like a bird ever since, including delivering me to the airport and getting my folks all the way back to Zim without even a hint of a jerk (I class myself as more "obnoxious" than "jerk")!

And that, you will be delighted to know, was the end of that. Wasn't it lucky I organised my transport arrangements so well in advance of my trip?!?

(This tale is dedicated to the enormous generosity of Rod and his family for lending me his kombi for "a couple of days"!)

The Holiday Part One -- Travel

Democracy is a hell of a thing. When embraced it can spread to the most unlikely of places. The cabin of a 747 for example.

Let me explain. One of the first things I noticed about SAA was the remarkable level of camaraderie amongst the passengers. Is the South African psyche such that they simply cannot hold back their gregarious personalities? Perhaps, but I think the real reason is that it very quickly becomes apparent to all passengers that relying on the cabin service crew is folly indeed. As a result they are simply compelled to work together to facilitate their needs! The ultimate democratic airline?

Of course there was the obligatory check-in ritual to be observed (see below), and I wasn't disappointed. On the way out to South Africa the procedure was followed to the letter -- right down to only getting bulkhead seats at the door of the plane. Now usually by this stage I am "known" to the cabin service crew (not many passengers make as much of a fuss as me). As a result someone is commonly sent to placate me in an attempt to head off anymore more disturbance. Not on this occasion. The first approach I had was from some trolley dolly asking (very nicely I must admit) whether I would consider moving to another seat! Doh! How do I even begin to explain this poor deluded fool what a futile path she is embarking on?

Now even I have a conscience, and the reason I was being asked to move was because there was a mother with a young baby sitting in a "normal" seat. Travellers with young children are, where possible, given bulkhead seats so that they can place their tender charges in "cradles" that attach to the bulkhead. Indeed, sitting next to us there was a couple with just such a young child. So I did have a slight prick of guilt when I was asked to move. However, once airborne the steward tried no less than three cradles -- none of which worked -- for the couple next to us before abandoning the project with a shrug. As a result the early model human being had to be transported on the lap of its parents anyway. What little guilt I had was now well and truly assauged, washed gently away by this singular display of ineptitude and indifference!

When it came to the return journey I hadn't even made it as far as the check-in before the dreaded dance began. A very strange system for weighing luggage exists where it is done on the trolley before you are allowed anywhere near the check-in desk. When I travel I have an unspecified medical allowance for my baggage. Unfortunately nobody bothered to tell SAA! In the past I have had to open my luggage to demonstrate the existence of my medical equipment for the benefit of Zimbabwe's Customs officers, but never before have my goods and chattels been rifled through before even getting to face down the check-in staff! Suffice to say a letter is being drafted as we speak. And of course I won the day in the end.

So to check-in. Now I am on very familiar battleground. After a lengthy conference I was pleasantly surprised by the unusual news that my bulkhead seats had been secured. Result? Well, actually no. On the aircraft I discovered that their cunning strategy involved seating me in the bulkhead, while seating my PA on the other side of the aisle -- a seat that was neither in the bulkhead nor directly adjacent to mine! Predictably the cabin crew were nowhere to be seen, so taking matters into hand I began rearranging the passenger manifest. A couple (without children) were sitting next to us and a gentleman on his own was supposed to have the other seat in the block. When he arrived the couple said "I'm afraid you've been moved", to which the gentleman responded "Again?"!

Fortunately he was very good about moving, and so we were off.

During the flight it transpired that the relocated gentleman had ordered vegetarian meals. The first of these was dutifully brought to his original seat, and was then conveyed down the row to its rightful owner. The next course was then duly delivered to ……………………. exactly the same place and despatched along exactly the same route to its final destination. And so it continued!

So, in the words of those wise men at Carlsberg ……….. "Probably the most democratic airline in the world?" Thank God for alcohol!

As always it was with a degree of trepidation that I made my way to the airport. Those of you who have been party to my previous travels will be aware of my rather one-sided relationship with bulkhead seats. You see I am infatuated, some would say obsessed with bulkhead seats. When I consider travel I am a committed monogamist and won't look, even glance at at other seats in my quest to commingle with bulkhead (unless of course I receive a realistic offer from "first" or "business" seats -- I am after all a comfort whore like everyone else!). Unfortunately this feeling is not reciprocated and bulkhead is fickle. When presented with such a wide choice of passenger derrières to choose from she can't resist the temptation of experimenting with others.

And so, aware of the struggle ahead I approach the matchmakers who pair off bums with seats -- "check-in staff". Their usual yardstick of success seems to be more one of volume targets and not so much pairing up particularly suited bums and seats. They make initial attempts to unite me with my desired bulkhead, but inevitably they have to consult the Oracle that is "flight controller". The Oracle usually promises to negotiate with the gods on my behalf and so I am consigned to wait in hope and anticipation!

In this state of limbo I proceed through the formalities involved in international migration before arriving at "the gate". Once again I'm confronted by the matchmakers who invariably report that the Oracle’s negotiations with the gods have been less than fruitful and bulkhead is steadfastly resisting my advances. The matchmakers then perform a time-honoured ritual of re-consulting the Oracle, asking me to at least try some other seat, having a general panic about delaying the flight and finally making contact with the priests and priestesses of "cabin crew" and the high priest "cabin services director". These priests and priestesses then intercede on my behalf directly to bulkhead and, usually miraculously convince the fickle bulkhead to unite with me for at least the duration of this particular trip! Success!

Now ideally I like to have a few minutes alone with bulkhead when I get onto the aeroplane in order to re-establish our acquaintance, but invariably by the time the various rituals have been attended to the other passengers have started to board and even these precious moments are denied me! Such is the nature of my travel.

Embassies are bastards! So much for the shop window for other countries. In my experience the shutters have been brought firmly down and the only way to gain even partially entry is departing with the proverbial blue coin!

Take for example my recent encounter with the cheese eating surrender monkey French. A visa is required for my impending trip to Paris (not for me mind). First point of call is the website. Here very general information is available -- the majority of which is in French. Having decoded the procedure I need to find out two things:

1) am I in search of a business or tourist visa?

2) in the event of me having to go to the embassy (sorry consulate) is it by any chance wheelchair accessible?

Unsurprisingly this information is not available on the website. So off to the "contact us" section, only to discover that the following options are available:

A) premium rate number (£1 per minute) for visa information. On investigation it appears to be a repeat of what is on the website with the added twist of emptying your wallet at the same time!

B) premium rate number (£1 per minute) to book an appointment. On investigation there is at least two minutes of irrelevant information before the booking process even begins!

C) standard rate number for visa inquiries. Ah, promising? Well actually, no! Unless of course you regard a recorded message pointing you in the direction of the two premium rate numbers useful!

D) e-mail address.

Given that timings are quite tight on this one I was hoping to get a more immediate response, but in the end I admitted defeat and sent an e-mail with my queries. The result. 24 hours later a response telling me that

1) I am in search of a tourist visa.

2) the consulate is not wheelchair accessible. Sorry for that!

Given my well-known patience with bureaucrats and my love of queuing I shall be employing the services of a visa agent on this occasion!

Bastards!

So, has anyone else noticed that the EU has expanded to include a number of former Eastern European states? I'm thinking specifically of Poland and Lithuania at this stage. You may be wondering why I am particularly concerned with these two emerging nations. The answer is simply that I have had a few PAs from these countries in the last couple of months. Now don't get me wrong, I'm all in favour of the free migration of labour from places that have lots of it, and cheap, to places with a shortage. The problem is that at this stage I don't particularly want these buggers working for me!

Let me explain. The role of my PA is to facilitate my lifestyle, but probably the most significant duties involve getting me in and out of bed. The way that this is done is that I lie in bed and give instruction as to how I want to be extracted from my boudoir -- so to speak. A fundamental requirement of being able to follow those instructions is the ability to understand them in the first instance. As my mother tongue is English it is convenient when my PAs are conversant in it. While I in no way want to tar all Poles and Lithuanians with the same brush, in my experience English is not one of their strongest points! So "cut" to my bedroom if you will:

"Straighten my leg. No, my leg. My leg, my leg. The thing that is hanging out of my hip with a foot on the end, that's my arm you are moving. Yes, that's my leg. Straighten it. No no, straighten it. No, that's bending it -- no don't bend it, DON'T BEND IT, straighten it. Straighten it, make it straight. Straight like a straight line -- like a ruler. Wait, where are you going? No, don't go and get a ruler, just straighten my leg. Look at my other leg -- leg, not arm -- now make this leg [prod, prod] like this leg [prod, prod]. No, don't try and twist my foot around just straighten my leg so that it is as straight as the other leg. That's right. Well done. Now, get a pair of socks out of the middle drawer of the bedside table. The bedside table. That table over their, the one with three drawers. Drawers. Things that open that you keep clothes in, with a handle. The knob thing in the middle of the draw is the handle. That's what you use to open the drawer. No, PULL the drawer don't PUSH it. That's right, and now get a pair of brown socks out. Socks, that you wear on your feet under your shoes. Shoes, you wear them on your feet. No, that's my hand and you put gloves on your hand. Gloves? Well don't worry about them at the moment, just get a pair of brown socks out of the drawer…………………………….."

And so the morning continues.

A few hours later I emerge, slightly jaded I must say, to face the world. After the brief respite of a quiet cup of tea to gather myself it's time for lunch. So the general factotum is summoned to the kitchen:

"Right, I need to to see what I've got so open that cupboard over there. Cupboard, the thing with doors on behind you -- the one where the food is kept. No, that's a drawer -- yes, like the one on the bedside table but with a different handle, knob -- but I want to open the cupboard which is above that. Above. Up. Up. Towards the ceiling -- roof. That's it. Stop. Stop! That's the one, that's the cupboard …………………"

And so dear friends, once more it into the breach!?!

In 1994 I broke my neck (C4/5) in a diving accident. I was faced with two options. Either I could return home and live with my parents, or I could have a go at living on my own and try and establish an independent lifestyle. I decided to live on my own and that was when personal assistants (PAs, carers, care assistants, care workers etc) entered my life. The nature and level of my injury has meant that I have had 24 hour care since my accident. On many occasions I have been asked what it is like to be dependent on someone else for so many things, and this is an attempt to shed some light on the experience.

On the 30th of June 1994 I was an independent, spontaneous young person in complete control of my day-to-day living. The next day on the 1st of July 1994 I was a tetraplegic entirely dependent on others for every aspect of my daily living, from getting up in the morning to going to bed at night and everything in between! Since that day I have had to ask for many things that people take for granted. I have to ask to get up in the morning, I have to ask when I want a drink, I have to ask when I want food, I have to ask when I want to brush my teeth, I have to ask when I need to go to the toilet, I have to ask when I want to go out etc etc etc.. As a result everything takes that much longer to do. If someone else wants a drink from the fridge they simply go and get one, whereas I need to call somebody, explain which drink I want, how I want it served. This process probably doubles the time it takes to perform the simple task of getting a drink.

This dramatic change takes some psychological adjustment and can be frustrating at times. Even now more than 10 years after my accident I can get extremely frustrated. Sometimes those frustrations spill over and I can become quite short with people. Most of the time my PA will bear the brunt of this frustration, but it is important that they remember that the source of the frustration is not them personally but a lot more to do with my situation.

As a result of this situation I run my life on a pretty strict, almost military routine. Each morning I get out of bed in pretty much exactly the same way, and each evening I go to bed in pretty much exactly the same way. This serves two purposes. Firstly, the quicker by PA learns my routine the less I have to instruct them and as a consequence the less I have to consciously think about the mechanical processes other people take for granted. I often try to explain to my PAs that while, say, getting me up in the morning is part of their job and if it takes all morning that's their job, for me it is simply getting out of bed. Something that needs to be done for me to get on with my life. So the less time it takes and the less I have to consciously think about it the more I can focus on the rest of my life. The second purpose served by my routines is that things don't get left out. It is much more difficult to go back a few steps and do something again for me than it would be with somebody without a disability.

Another issue that can arise as a result of me having to ask someone else to do so many things for me is the question of what is "reasonable" for me to ask them to do? Some people like gardening, others like washing the car. Some people are happy cleaning all day, and some people really don't like cooking very much. So what is it reasonable for me to demand of my PAs? My rule of thumb in this regard is that anything to do with my body and my personal care is nonnegotiable, and everything else is open to negotiation. For example if I want to be repositioned in my wheelchair 20 times until I am sat just right, or if I want my face washed in a particular way and my hair brushed "just so" it is reasonable for me to ask that of my PA. I will not however demand that they wash the dishes in a particular way as long as they come out clean in the end!

However tetraplegics decide to organise their care (and each person does it differently) the bottom line is that we end up living with our PAs. This means that on a regular basis I invite complete strangers into my home and have to make them feel as welcome as possible. Inevitably I also entrust them with complete access to my home, car, bank pin numbers and all sorts of other aspects of my life -- usually within a very short time of having met them. This really is an act of faith and requires me to put my complete trust in relative strangers for my health, welfare and well-being. Occasionally this trust is betrayed (I have had things stolen from me, telephone bills run up and other unfortunate things) but I must say that in the 10 years since my accident it has only been broken on a handful of occasions. This represents a tiny proportion of the number of PAs I have known, but it does happen.

So here I am living with somebody out of necessity, not choice. And it's not like sharing a house with someone because we are pretty much together 24 hours of the day. In order for it to work good communication is essential. This sounds simple enough but given the complicated relationship that exists it is not always that easy. On the one hand I am the employer and therefore theoretically in a position of authority, but on the other hand I am entirely dependent on the other person for pretty much every aspect of my life, which gives them no small amount of power. So if I am not happy with something I need to communicate that in such a way that they don't end up storming out and refusing me the help that I need. Interesting.

So where does the relationship go? Well the employer/employee relationship is not enough in and of itself. There needs to be some element of friendship for it to work on anything like a long-term basis -- and in this sort of care work long-term not much more than a year. I remain friends with almost all of my past PAs and have even been invited to some of their weddings. That is why I prefer the term PA (Personal Assistant) to carer as I feel it better describes the nature of the relationship. On one occasion one of my PAs was asked by a friend of mine "Are you looking after Brian?" His response was enlightening. "No, Brian looks after himself, he just tells me what to do.".

As I said earlier my PAs are privy to almost every detail of my life. They know what I do, where I'd do it and who I do it with. They know my bank codes and where I keep my spare house keys. They know what radio stations I listen to, what TV I watch, who my friends are (and often what I think of them) how much I drink and so on and so on. It really is essential therefore that they respect my confidentiality and don't spread details of my life inappropriately. You would be amazed what has been blurted out in social gatherings by some of my less than guarded PAs. And it's not just confidentiality, discretion is a must. For example not many people appreciate what is involved for me in the simple process of getting out of bed. This can, at times take up to four hours. So when somebody phones me at 11 a.m. and my PA answers the phone and says "No, I'm afraid he is still in bed." the person on the other end may well simply assume that I am just a lazy person! While this may or may not be true a more discreet response would be that I am "unavailable".

There are of course other social implications of having a PA. My friends all need to understand that if they invite me round to dinner they have to cater for two people. In addition to this many people don't fully understand the role of my PA, and this can make them feel slightly uncomfortable having these people around in a social context. Once again there is something of a balancing act required. On the one hand it is inevitable that my PA will join in my social occasions, but there may also be times when I want to spend time with my friends "on my own" and it is appropriate for my PA to discreetly withdraw.

Despite the frustrations that arise from living with a Personal Assistant the bottom line is that without them I would more than likely be living in an institution! They are fundamental in me achieving an independent lifestyle. I recognise that it is certainly not an easy job and were I still able-bodied I'm not sure I would be able to pull it off. So I really do appreciate the people who are willing and able to enable my life, and I am extremely grateful for everything they do.

It is of course by no means all hard work and I have had some fantastic times with the people who have worked with me over the years. We have travelled to Africa and on to the continent and got stuck in some ridiculous situations which we have laughed our way out of -- you can either laugh or cry! As I said earlier I remain firm friends with lots of the people who have come into my life in this way, and I'm sure that there are plenty more friends to be made in this way.