I recently attended an editing course in London. Walking in London is always difficult for me because of the sheer number of people, though when they see my stick they tend to be more careful. My son, Dan, escorted me there and otherwise I wouldn’t have been able to manage.
Dan left me and I chatted with a few people waiting outside, despite being self-conscious about not being able to smile because the right side of my face doesn’t move. The most difficult part of the day was lunchtime, which should have been the most sociable. The low-ceilinged room was full of people, but because I only have one hearing nerve, the surround sound made it impossible for me to hear what someone even two feet away was saying. Once I had finished eating, I stood up, so frustrated I was almost crying.
After the course, Dan and I went to an Italian restaurant that he said was very good and quite reasonable for London. The waitress with a sympathetic face saw me struggling with the door and she came to hold it open. I knew even before she spoke that she was Italian; her high cheekbones and dark hair gave her away.
It was quite early, so there were lots of places free. We sat at a table by the window and had soon chosen what we were having. Before we ordered, Dan got up to go to the toilet. He soon came back but seemed worried because he said I would have difficulty. We went to have a look and I saw what looked like a spiral fire escape going down to the toilets. Dan had the idea of using a toilet in a pub nearby and returning to the restaurant. We told the waitress, and she put a reserved sign on the table.
We had to walk to a pub a hundred metres away but fortunately, nobody seemed to notice me. When we finally got back to our places in the Italian restaurant, we felt that we deserved our carafe of wine.
Lisa Samson 