Thanks to Matt Wardman who is taking very seriously the issue of accessibility to his site The Wardman Wire.
As for the new Politics Home, well, I know very little about web accessibility (other than it being an issue for many) but, even without vision problems past those of your typical mole, I can't even look at the site without my eyes putting up an Olympic style protest. Shame as I hear it might be quite interesting.
The thing about using cannabis as a form of medicine is that, unlike something prescribed by a doctor, you have no idea of the dosage you should take. Over time, anyone experienced in this drug knows roughly how much to smoke in any one go, but of course that varies wildly according to individual tolerance, the strength and quality of the particular cannabis used and the desired effect of that particular strain, some sedating, some more uplifting. Throughout the years I've noticed that cannabis tends to have a different effect on me than it does to my friends who use it purely socially. It tends to take me longer to reach a point where I'm stoned, and I'm able to consume far more overall if I so choose. It's so noticeable that one friend claims to judge the quality of any given smoke by what it does to me. If I get so hugely floppy that I can't stand, aided by my laughing at myself til I fall over anyway, then that's good weed.
With no regulation or quality control indicating strength it's easy to get it slightly wrong. Which would be how I realised, only moments into today's death walk that I was in fact completely and totally fucked. What I'd judged a sufficient amount to provide pain control but no more, was in fact enough to make me wasted. The kind of stoned that involves that mysterious, almost involuntary giggling. At anything and everything.
I imagine I make quite the sight at the best of times staggering along these death walks. I know I must do because it's rare I can get through one without someone stopping and asking if I need help. Usually sprightly old ladies who speed past me then turn round. This afternoon I was staggering like a loose limbed, drunk, porn star. After a world record attempt for shagging the most men in one session ever.
Ehlers Danlos Syndrome is hugely affected by hormones most noteably oestrogen and progesterone which rise and fall during a woman's menstrual cycle. Oestrogen tends to have a stabilising effect on collagen, but progestogens loosen it. Consequently at the times in the menstrual cycle that progesterone exceeds oestrogen females notice increased joint hypermobility and associated symptoms such as clumsiness and poor proprioception. It's worse in those who's hypermobility is caused by their collagen structure as opposed to caused by abnormalities in the actual joint structure itself. I have marked laxity at the best of times, but around the time of the month that I ovulate and in the run up to my period this is hugely increased.
Saturday should have given me warning I was going to be laxer than normal, but of course I ignored it. As usual. I wanted something from the cupboard under the sink. Simple enough but my proprioception was so off I smacked my head on the sink. Forwards and down. I was at least 6 inches out. And not a man's six inches. Red, on the other end of the phone said all she heard was that hollow thunk you get when bone hits inanimate object and an 'ow, fuck!' Immediately followed by a huge crash as I knocked the washing up over. She did raise the idea of concussion at the time, but I poo-poohed it. Until waking up from where I'd passed out on the sofa in a shivering heap. Then I conceded she could be on to something.
Today as I was walking I realised that I was so lax that each side of my pelvis was happily doing its own thing. Whilst a multi directional pelvis makes me a wow in the bedroom, it does little for my ability to stay upright. Throw the wrong amount of cannabis into the equation and not only am I having a spack attack, I'm finding the idea incredibly funny. I kept bursting into fits of giggles, worsened by my stoned minds ability to visualise how I must look to other people making me giggle even more.
The highlight was the horrifying moment the police community patrol car coming towards me slowed down so much I thought they were going to stop and how I was so blatantly stoned I would be able to do nothing but giggle. Which of course set me off again. Luckily the police have far better things to do that investigate a small, staggering, swaying, stoned person giggling like a fool on the side of the road in the middle of the afternoon.
I now have another two weeks of this to look forward to.
When the 10% income tax rate was abolished last year it sent shivers down the spines of many low paid workers. I had a (lengthy and futile) conversation with Ziggy in which we attempted to work out how this would affect him. Our only solid conclusion was that he would be dramatically worse off.
Ziggy is at 22 pretty much the primary wage earner in his household. He lives with his mother and younger brother who is still at school. For some complicated reason I've never been fully able to ascertain his mother is not entitled to tax credits. It's something to do with past overpayment, attachment of earnings that made them dramatically worse off and the odd council tax and water rates debt. Whatever the causes, the end result is that mum is not entitled to claim tax credits to top up her (sporadically attended) part time jobs at a local supermarket and youth group.
That leaves the family completely reliant on Ziggy's wage. Approximately £14, 000 before tax. He hands over the majority of his earnings to his mother either in 'keep' when he first has his wages or usually throughout the week/month to pay for basics like food, gas and electric when mum has run out of money.
Ziggy at 22, with no disabilities or children is not entitled to claim tax credits even in his position as main wage earner. The family are also liable for full council tax as there are two adults in the property.
The only practical conclusion for this family on the loss of 10% tax (which will affect mum too) is as Ziggy suggested to go 'off the books' and start to receive wages cash in hand. How many will feel they have to take this option whilst politicians in Westminster continue to whine about how reversing the policy would be 'less fair' ?
Plugged in to my headphones, music blasting in my ears, teeth gritted, I was focused on keeping upright, putting one foot in front of the other. I was walking along the Coronation Street style alleyway, conscious that despite the safety of the area it possibly wasn't the best idea to do so alone at dusk. Particularly not with headphones on. But doing it anyway.
I felt their presence before I heard them. I was sure there was someone coming up behind me. My right hip feeling as though it was on fire with acid hot pain I knew my gait was particularly poor but could only concentrate on keeping going.
The first time I looked over my shoulder I couldn't see anyone. I assumed my instincts were playing tricks on me and went back to concentrating on moving. Thinking about the chocolate reward at the end of it all.
So when I saw the two lads, faces obscured by their hoods I felt a moment of fear. I'd ignored my instincts that there had been someone there and my body was announcing how stupid that was with a rush of adrenaline.
Still unable to hear I fumbled with clumsy hands to pull out my headphones. The boys wearing hoods had passed me and were now turning round to face me. My heart plummeted.
Then, ever so politely a voice came from the closer of the hood wearing teenagers. And asked me if I was alright.
