Taking my wheelchair to untested heights. Pooping myself.

So I’ve got this fantastic new wheelchair, see. And it’s red and funky and off-road and crowdfunded, see.

And even though the weather has been ‘beige’ and soggy at best, the mile-wide grin on my face each time we’ve ventured out, has kinda sizzled its way through the mist. Beamed out like a new lighthouse for the South Coast. Though lighthouses don’t shout for joy much. Or travel at four miles per hour. Or take selfies. Or go home after a jolly good trip out. Bad analogy.

Even making tentative steps, so to speak, I’ve already managed ecstatic bundles of ‘first time in years’ moments. A snowball fight (see previous blog for a thrilling blow by blow account); a muddy promenade along the cliffs, with my twelve-year-old daredevil son begging me more than once to inch back from the edge; a crunchy wheel spin through soft sand; a whizz along the sand flats; and a rather embarrassing ‘back wheel sink’ into the wet sand at the water’s edge. Briefly marooned. Oops. I make Mrs W so proud.

But now comes the real test. The one I’m pooping myself about. Not literally. That’s for another blog.

Tomorrow we’re off on holiday. On a plane. And at some point tomorrow – hopefully only at the foot of the plane – I have to surrender my expensive new lifeline to be loaded into the hold. I’ll spend the next few airborne hours worrying about my ‘Trekinetic’ (which needs a name by the way. All suggestions welcome, though I have one in mind). Will it be damaged? Lost? Will they remember I need it delivered on the tarmac? Gah! And the entire flight I’ll also be wondering just how they plan to get me to the loo in the very likely event I need a pee. Apparently it’s all very awkward. Great.

I’ll report back from the sun lounger. All will have gone swimmingly. I promise. I hope.