This morning we picked up my new wheelchair. It’s a sporty European marque, with an aggressive stance, low-profile tires, and a head-turning cherry-red metalflake paint job. It’s not that great on the corners, but it’ll take any one of y’all on the straightaways.

I’ve never done time on wheels. On the whole, I found it to be not all that bad. Then again, I don’t figure that most wheelchair-bound men my age get to enjoy being pushed around town by a couple of sexy German bloggerettes. Thanks, ladies: the jealous looks from the other local cripples was the icing on the cake. Here’s a little something extra for you, babes. (via AoSHQ)

Funny things happen when you’re on wheels. I saw a lady I work with while being carted through Tesco’s frozen food department. I said hello, and she just looked right through me, steering her cart so as not to make contact with the leper. She probably thought I was going to ask her for some spare change, or if she could wipe me bum for me, or whatever it is that those people want from healthy-legged people. I also noticed that the supermarkets put completely different things down on the bottom three feet of the shelves. All the cool toys are down there, for example, presumably because chil’n’s is small. It’s also a great altitude to find anti-bedsore medicaments, for some reason.

So, I let myself be pushed by the Weyside in Guildford, where, at one point, a husky young native was required to wheel my fat ass up a steep incline. The Sistas, for all their heart, lacked the muscle to get the job done, so he, being a true-hearted salt-of-earth kind of guy, waved them off and grunted and sweated till I crested the hill. Had the man known that I could have, at any point in time, simply stood up and hobbled up the hill under my own power, he most certainly would have picked me up and broken me over his knee.

Tomorrow morning, we’ll be visiting Stonehenge, or Stone’enge, as the locals quaintly call it. We’ll also visit the haunted city, Salisbury, to watch the homosexuals. Ta!