Walking up my street isn’t too bad because I’m in familiar surroundings. However, when someone steps out of their garden gate I crash into them. This is quite simply because they’ve come from outside the bounds of my limited peripheral vision and I don’t see them until it’s too late. They call me an idiot. Moving on up the street someone opens their car door and again it’s outside my peripheral vision so I walk into it. I apologise but as I walk away I’m sure I can hear someone mutter the word idiot again.
Feeling more than a little hurt I make it the top of the street without further incident. I’m now walking alongside the main Newcastle road. The traffic is very busy and I’m feeling more than a little intimidated. No one seems to be sticking to the 30 mph speed limit and I can feel the tension beginning to rise within me. Before crossing the road I decide to go into the newsagent’s to buy a lottery ticket. The slip that you fill in is too small for me to read so I ask the man behind the counter if he’d mind filling it in for me. He snatches it from me and grudgingly fills it in, muttering something about me being a bit thick. I’m beginning to think about calling off my trip so as to save me suffering any further humiliation.
Leaving the newsagent’s, I head for the zebra crossing so as to get across that busy Newcastle road. A car is approaching the crossing but I can’t judge his speed so I wait at the kerb until he’s completely stopped. The driver is already impatient that I haven’t set off over the crossing as he approached and he’s now revving his engine. I can feel myself getting more and more uptight. As I pass his windscreen he’s tapping his head with his index finger, indicating that I’m an idiot.
I manage to make it safely to the bus stop. After a while I can see something that looks like it might be a bus. It’s big and red so maybe it’s a fire engine. (I have been known to flag them down in the past. I once flagged down a cement mixer.) As the big red vehicle gets closer I realise it really is a bus so I stick my hand out. I can’t read the number while the bus is moving so I have to flag him anyway. As soon as he’s stopped the driver opens the door and I ask him if he’s the 527. His reply is ‘Are you fucking blind or what?’ As he shuts the door he calls me a ‘fucking idiot’. I’m on the verge of going home, I feel so demoralised. This was supposed to be an enjoyable shopping trip but it’s turning into a nightmare of ridicule and abuse.
The next bus to arrive is mine and I manage to make it safely on board. After a short journey I leave the bus to make the rest of the journey on by Metro. In case you’re wondering how I know when to get off, it’s actually quite simple. With my level of sight I can easily recognise the eight-foot high, illuminated sign to Heworth Metro station. Getting through the station and finding the platform is not too difficult but on the platform there’s a moving digital display which I simply cannot read. As a train approaches I ask the man next to me if this is the train for Newcastle. He just points at the digital display and walks off.
“Thanks for all your help,” I mutter. And he walks off muttering abuse.
Fortunately, it is in fact the right train and I make it safely into Newcastle. On leaving the train at Newcastle I have to pass through a turnstile. It’s very busy and there are people coming at me from both sides from beyond the bounds of my peripheral vision. I can’t help but bump into one of them and once again a total stranger calls me an idiot. I can feel my temper starting to go.
Now I’m making my way up Northumberland Street, the main shopping street in Newcastle. This is a pedestrian zone with shops on both sides. People are emerging from shop doorways on both sides of the street but because of my lack of peripheral vision I’m simply not picking up on them and I’m bumping into them constantly. ‘Idiot,’ they all mutter. By now my temper is completely out of the bag.
I’ve heard on the radio that there’s a new Jackson Browne CD out so I wander into HMV. The shop is badly lit and once again I’m bumping into people. The combination of bad lighting and the small print on CD covers make it impossible for me to find what I’m looking for so I go off in search of an assistant. Eventually, I track one down and she tells me that if they have what I want it’ll be out there on the shelves and that I should go and look. I’m almost at boiling point now and I’m forcing my hands into my pockets to avoid choking the assistant. I skulk out of the store feeling embarrassed and defeated.
Comfort for such feelings comes in the form of a burger. So off I set in search of a fast-food joint. The menus in such establishments are always situated high up on a back wall, behind the counter. It’s impossible for me to read the list of food items so I ask the 18-year-old behind the counter what they have. She points at the sign and says:
“Duh, it’s up there.”
The red mist has now completely descended and I’ve had more than enough for one day. I swear at the child behind the counter and storm out of the store. Sod it. I’m going home, I think to myself. Just then I bump into another man who’s come up on my blind side. His “happy meal” is now spread all down his shirt and he’s not looking too happy at all.
“Idiot!”
he shouts.
“Fuck off,” I reply as I bolt for the Metro station.
The return journey is just as fraught as the outward one but by now the pan of my temper has completely boiled over.
Before Abbot came along there were many days like this and I had simply stopped going out on my own altogether. I would ask other people to go shopping for me and I avoided socialising on my own. By the time Abbot came along, apart from hospital appointments, it had been over 18 months since I’d been out alone.
Here’s a retake of the last chapter. This time I have the services of a guide dog...
When Abbot and I are all groomed and ready – or at least, when Abbot is! – we set off. Abbot’s in the lead, wearing a white harness (as opposed to a brown one), which proves that he’s fully qualified as a guide dog. I’m following behind, sensitive to Abbot’s every movement.
Moving beyond the familiar terrain of the garden and the gate, we proceed up the street. Suddenly, I feel Abbot’s harness move to the left and I move with it. This is now second nature to me. It isn’t until we pass that I realise a man was coming out of his gate and we have missed him completely. I bump into no one and no one calls me an idiot. Marvellous, bloody marvellous.
We turn right and walk along that busy Newcastle road. The fast-moving traffic holds no terror for me now. I utter that magic key word
‘News’
and Abbot heads for the newsagent’s. As we enter, the man behind the counter shouts,
“Hi, Dave. How’s Abbot?”
I give him my lottery ticket and he fills it out for me and we exchange some friendly banter. Once again, no one has called me an idiot.
Coming out I use another one of those key words ‘Crossing’ and Abbot takes me to the zebra crossing. We wait at the kerb for a few moments until the traffic comes to a stop. I give Abbot the command
‘Forward’
and Abbot heads purposefully across the road. As we go past one of the waiting cars I think I can see one of the drivers smiling and pointing at Abbot. Marvellous, bloody marvellous.
We make it safely to the bus stop and wait a few moments for the bus to arrive. When it does, the doors open and the driver calls out the number asking if this is the one I need. As it happens this is not the one for me but I thank him anyway and he tells me that the one I want will be along shortly. Sure enough my bus is right behind and we make it safely on board.
On arrival at the Metro station we make it safely to the platform. As we’re waiting a gentleman asks us what train we’re waiting for. He assures me the next train is for Newcastle and asks if I mind if he pats my dog. He’s been so helpful, I’m only too pleased to let him.
As we board the train and I sit down and Abbot begins to play his favourite game. He sits between my feet, head resting on my knee, looking as pathetic as possible. He scans the carriage to see who’s taking notice of him. When he finds his victim he fixes them with his most soulful expression. His face asks the question: ‘Would you like to give me a pat?’ In my experience there are few people who can resist this and you can bet your bottom dollar that within a few moments his chosen victim will cave in and come over and ask if he can give him a pat. It never fails and Abbot, the celebrity, has another adoring fan. Bless him.
We alight in Newcastle city centre and as we progress through the turnstile I begin to realise that no one has bumped into me even though there are people coming at me from all sides. Abbot is very much in control in these situations and it’s now a matter of habit for me to tune into the movement of his harness and to move with it, thus avoiding physical contact with any passers by.
We are now on Northumberland Street and although people are coming out of shop doorways from outside my visual field, I haven’t as much as brushed sleeves with anyone. This is what Abbot lives for. His tail is up and he’s giving it 100% concentration and taking great pride in his work. For the first time in years I’m enjoying a shopping trip. I haven’t made physical contact with anyone and no one has called me an idiot or abused me in any other way. This is such a joy.
I decide to try my luck at finding that Jackson Browne CD again. So off I set for HMV. As I walk into the shop a shop assistant spots us and asks if she can be of any help. I tell her what I’m looking for and she tells me to wait where I am and she goes away to find it for me. I can’t believe it! There’s been no need for me to go through the embarrassment of telling a total stranger about my sight impairment. Wow! I stand waiting, feeling appreciative of Abbot.
By now I’m getting a little big-headed and I’m beginning to think I’ve got this whole shopping thing in the bag. Feeling more than a little pleased with myself, I decide to have another go at sampling burger cuisine. I join the queue and await the attention of the 18-year-old behind the counter. I ask her if she can tell me what’s on the menu.
“It’s on the board up there,”
she mutters.
I’m standing in front of her wearing dark glasses, carrying a symbol cane and I’ve got Abbot in full working harness, complete with fluorescent markings, but obviously both her neurons are out to lunch. She points again at the board and mumbles:
“Up there.”
At this point she is very close to serious harm. I am about to unleash the wrath that has been building up in me over 30 years. Suddenly, I feel a tugging at my sleeve and I turn to find a very petite lady standing beside me.
“WHAT?!”
Addressing her, I completely forget I’m no longer talking to the thicko 18-year-old behind the counter.
“I thought you might like me to read the menu to you,” she begins nervously.
This is another of those ‘Oh bugger’ moments. I’ve allowed my temper to trample all over the feelings of a lovely lady who is simply trying to help. I apologise profusely and she tells me she understands perfectly. She sits beside me as I settle down at a table and Abbot crawls underneath. As I munch happily on my burger she fusses over Abbot and becomes yet another fully signed-up member of the Abbot Fan Club. Membership must by now outnumber that of Robbie Williams’ and Abbot doesn’t even have a tattoo. He doesn’t wear an earring and the only drugs he does are his anti-flea treatment.
So you see... Life with Abbot is a whole lot better than life before Abbot. He’s a wonderful being and his talents are the stuff of legend. Nevertheless, having given you a glimpse into my ‘before and after’ worlds I don’t want to give you the impression that a guide dog is the cure-all for every issue of sight impairment. The world has more than its fair share of people who are ignorant of the issues involved in sight impairment. More on that later...
And yes I got my Jackson Browne CD which included this poignant song.
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