Anything for a blue badge.
Now the Local Council had got in on the act, sending her a forty page form to renew her blue badge. She sighed. Such bureaucratic heavy handedness used to be reserved for the alphabet people, the DLA, PIP, WTC, HMRC, TLA agencies. But now, even the suits in the downtown offices seemed to approach parked cars with a cudgel. Since when had parking become so contentious?
Yes, she qualified for a DLA exemption, and here was a copy of her current letter of award.
Yes, she had a disability, although when asked to indicate its precise nature and extent within the boundaries of the small box provided, she was unable, sorry, to provide the entire requisite details.
Yes, she had always had a disability, still had it and always would have, God save her soul from its crushing drudgery. She would have loved to lose it, say, or leave it behind unclaimed at a lost property somewhere, but no. Perhaps it would be fairer to indicate how, in her own words, her disability had had her.
No, her disability was not progressive, but Yes, its effects did vary though again, she was unable to indicate the full nature and extent of its variableness even within the box outlined or on the extra space provided overleaf. How does one articulate loss, sorrow, heaviness, isolation, poverty, pain, humiliation and sheer boredom? She did her best, indicating that there were days she didn’t feel like getting out of bed, but she had to, nonetheless; that there were times when she had to crawl, because walking was impossible. That the wind and rain often put paid to her plans for some fresh air. That the complexities of driving into town were only made possible because she knew a place to park nearby.
She filled in the form, doing her best to suppress mounting irritation. She posted it off and within a few weeks her new badge came, all shiny and laminated, and with a picture of her unhappy visage on the back. It was a valuable, vital piece of kit for travel into town, her badge of freedom. Such a pity that she had to reveal so many personal details in order to get it.
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April 28, 2014
Sandy
Fran Macilvey acceptance, family, growing up, honesty, hope, patience Flash Fiction & Short Stories 3 Comments
Sandy Burgiss had finished his breakfast. Letting out a contented sigh, he cracked through the bottom of the empty egg shell using a small, bone spoon, which, he remembered fondly, he had inherited from his mother. Folding up the morning paper, he abruptly pushed back the dining seat and left the room. As he closed the door, he flicked a switch in the hall, turning off the light which hung low over the dining table. It had been a dull, early spring morning, though the passage of thirty minutes accustomed eyes to the gloom. In any case, he had finished his breakfast, so leaving the light on was wasteful.
His wife ate the rest of her breakfast in the flitting darkness.
Sandy went through to the living-room to make a start on the crossword. When that was finished, and if he felt like it, he would shave, though there was scarcely any need to do that these days; He didn’t welcome visitors and none were expected anyway – he had retired many years ago, and he liked his privacy.
His wife cleared the dining room, washed the dishes, and set the table for lunch. She enjoyed company, which would have made the numbing domesticity which fell to her lot, less difficult to bear. She missed the chatter of the old days, when she had been a teacher and, before that, the eldest of a family of ten children. They had lived in a small house, all twelve of them – never a dull moment!
And then she had married Sandy, who had been so clever and charming and very easy to speak to. Of course, in those days a man’s word was law, especially in the home. Slowly, a pall of respectable silence had descended. Oh! For a bit of noise! But Ella was frightened of disapproval, and being schooled in the old ways, kept her peace.
The only time there was any change, was when little Peter came to stay. Suddenly, their respectability was shattered, in a hail of questions and curiosity. “Why? Gramps…why do we do it like this?” and he would heave himself carelessly over the old man’s lap, while Sandy chuckled, “steady on there, boy…!” Peter would clamber over the furniture, leave sticky finger prints across the windows and drop chocolate biscuit crumbs on the floor – trailing them right through the house! Ella was delighted, but mystified. She would laugh over the painted pictures which left careless smears of red. She adored baking with Peter because he always joined in the game with glee, stirring up the flour into great clouds.
On one of these days, they were having an early tea, with egg and cress and salmon sandwiches. Peter and Ella had baked scones, which sat in proud splodges on a plate before them. Ella remarked in passing that she was so happy. Sandy glanced up from his plate and smiled a rare smile, like a shot of sunlight. “Yes, my dear, I can see that. Peter is such a pleasure to have around, aren’t you, my boy!” And Peter, with a great big grin answered, “Love you too, Grampa!”
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