It’s a provocative title. Perhaps even an uncomfortable one. But after what happened yesterday, and reflecting on the number of times we have encountered similar situations, I’m beginning to understand why my wife feels the way she does.
Yesterday, Deborah got upset. Actually, more than upset. She came away feeling that, once again, being a wheelchair user meant being treated as an inconvenience.
There were three things that happened, although one of them was relatively insignificant compared with what followed.
Let me explain.
When being ignored becomes normal
We were in John Lewis and Deborah had picked up a cheese scone. Unfortunately, there was no butter, so she went over to the counter to ask for some.
She stood there for several minutes while various members of staff walked past. Nobody acknowledged her, nobody asked if she needed help and nobody seemed particularly interested.
Eventually, another customer took it upon herself to find a member of staff and explain that Deborah needed assistance.
Now, on its own, you might think this was just poor customer service. Perhaps somebody was busy, perhaps they hadn’t noticed.
But that’s precisely the problem. These things happen so frequently that they begin to feel normal.
And what happened later was considerably worse.
The Pizza Express experience
We decided to grab something to eat before heading to our concert. We spotted a Pizza Express and, looking through the entrance, could see that there were a few steps to negotiate.
However, there was also a wheelchair lift.
Great, we thought. Problem solved.
The first member of staff said she would get the manager to operate the lift. A few moments later, another member of staff appeared and, almost casually, announced:
“Sorry, the lift isn’t working.”
And that was that.
As I wheeled Deborah away, I noticed she was in tears.
But I want to make something clear. These weren’t simply tears of sadness or disappointment. They were tears of frustration and anger. The sort of tears that come when you’ve had enough, when yet another seemingly ordinary experience becomes another obstacle, another indignity, another reminder that the world doesn’t always make room for you.
I think it was the injustice of it all that got to her. Why should something as straightforward as going out for a pizza become such an ordeal? Why should she have to keep encountering these barriers, keep having to ask for help, keep wondering whether people simply can’t be bothered?
She said something that has stayed with me.
“I don’t think the lift was broken. I think she just didn’t want the hassle of operating it.”
Now, I’ll be honest. At the time, that possibility hadn’t even crossed my mind. I simply accepted what we’d been told.
But afterwards, I started to think about it.
We will never know whether the lift was genuinely out of order. I am certainly not going to accuse an individual member of staff of lying.
But just think about what Deborah was left wondering.
Was the lift actually broken? Had somebody simply decided that helping her was too much trouble? Was she being turned away because accommodating her required a little extra effort?
And that, for me, is one of the saddest aspects of this whole experience.
Why couldn’t there have been a notice on the entrance explaining that the lift was temporarily unavailable? How long had it been out of action? Were there any alternative arrangements that could have been offered?
Perhaps most importantly, why did the whole experience have to leave a disabled customer feeling embarrassed, rejected and unwanted?
It’s not an isolated incident
The truth is that these experiences aren’t unusual.
Our local Sainsbury’s has plenty of disabled parking spaces, but the lifts have been out of action for months. What is the point of providing disabled parking if wheelchair users cannot get into the shop?
We recently visited an Urban Outfitters in Nottingham. Again, the lift was sealed off and out of action.
Disabled toilets seem to have an unfortunate habit of becoming storage cupboards. Boxes, cleaning equipment and all manner of other things somehow find their way into facilities specifically provided for disabled people.
And then there’s the outside world.
Have you ever tried navigating a wheelchair along some of our pavements?
Uneven surfaces, broken paving stones, badly parked work vans and cars blocking the pavement. Finding a straightforward route from A to B can become an exhausting exercise in problem-solving.
I actually took a tumble while pushing Deborah’s wheelchair when the front wheel caught in a broken paving stone.
It’s not just inconvenient. It can be dangerous.
Imagine having to plan every journey around whether you can actually get along the pavement, whether you can get into a shop, whether the toilet will be accessible and whether somebody has bothered to maintain the facilities that are supposed to be there for you.
Being accessible isn’t the same as being welcoming
I remember visiting a café in Cardiff which advertised itself as wheelchair accessible.
Except it had steps and no ramp.
When we pointed this out, the solution offered was that several members of staff could carry Deborah up the stairs.
I’m sorry, but what?
My wife isn’t a piece of luggage to be manhandled into a building.
It’s dehumanising and degrading. Accessibility isn’t about finding somebody strong enough to lift a wheelchair user over an obstacle. It’s about providing an environment where that person can enter and enjoy the same experience as everybody else.
And then there was yesterday’s parking experience.
We had managed to secure one of the few disabled parking spaces available. Another driver decided to squeeze their car into the same marked bay, leaving us unable to get Deborah’s wheelchair down the side of our vehicle.
The irony?
They had a Blue Badge too.
You would think that someone who has access to a Blue Badge might understand why leaving enough room for another wheelchair user is important.
Apparently not.
Having a disability doesn’t automatically mean you understand everybody else’s needs, but surely a little consideration isn’t too much to ask?
And then comes the political rhetoric
Against this backdrop, I found the recent comments from Conservative leader Kemi Badenoch particularly frustrating.
She has been talking about disability benefits and used the example of double amputees who run marathons, alongside people with autism who run major technology companies and people who are housebound but do creative work.
Of course, these people exist. Their achievements are extraordinary and should be celebrated.
But what does that actually tell us about the everyday experience of disability?
Try navigating around Nottingham on a Wednesday in November in a wheelchair.
Try getting into a restaurant when the lift isn’t working.
Try finding a public toilet that hasn’t been turned into a storeroom.
Try getting along a pavement where the paving stones are broken and work vans are blocking your route.
Try planning a simple day out when every part of the journey involves wondering whether somebody has made reasonable provision for you.
The achievements of exceptional individuals should inspire us. They shouldn’t become a stick with which to beat those who face very different challenges.
One person’s ability to run a marathon doesn’t make somebody else’s need for support any less legitimate.
It’s exhausting having to fight for the basics
Here’s what I want people to understand.
Deborah doesn’t expect special treatment. She doesn’t expect the world to revolve around her wheelchair. She doesn’t expect everybody to drop everything whenever she enters a room.
She simply wants the same opportunities, the same dignity and the same consideration that most of us take for granted.
She wants to go for a coffee, visit a shop, enjoy a meal or attend a concert without having to negotiate a series of obstacles.
She wants to be acknowledged when she approaches a counter. She wants to know that the facilities advertised as accessible actually work. She wants to be able to park without somebody making it impossible to get her wheelchair out of the car.
Is that really too much to ask?
I think one of the biggest problems is that people see each incident in isolation.
A broken lift. A blocked toilet. A pavement that’s difficult to navigate. A member of staff who doesn’t offer assistance. A car parked too close.
Individually, perhaps each can be dismissed as an unfortunate inconvenience.
But when you experience them repeatedly, they accumulate.
They chip away at your confidence, your independence and, eventually, your enthusiasm for going out at all.
And perhaps that’s the bit many people never see.
It’s not simply about whether a wheelchair can physically get through a door. It’s about how it feels to be repeatedly reminded that the world hasn’t really been designed with you in mind.
So, do disabled people matter?
Of course they do.
But sometimes I wonder whether our actions, our attitudes and even our public conversations suggest otherwise.
We can put up all the accessibility signs we like. We can allocate parking spaces, install lifts and provide disabled toilets. We can talk about inclusion and equality until we’re blue in the face.
But if the lifts don’t work, the toilets are full of boxes, the pavements are impassable and the people who need assistance are routinely ignored, what does any of it actually mean?
And if our political conversation increasingly focuses on what disabled people might be capable of achieving, rather than understanding the barriers they face, are we really moving in the right direction?
Yesterday Deborah cried.
Not because she wanted sympathy. Not because she expected special treatment.
She cried out of frustration and anger. Out of the sheer injustice of it all. Because it’s exhausting being continually worn down by things that shouldn’t be difficult in the first place.
It’s the accumulation of it all. The repeated obstacles, the thoughtlessness, the feeling that you are an inconvenience simply because you need a little consideration.
And perhaps that’s what people don’t understand. It’s rarely just one incident. It’s the weight of hundreds of them, each taking a little more out of you.
I find that incredibly difficult to accept.
The truth is, disabled people do matter.
It’s about time the rest of us started acting like it.
