My invisible family member

I have been pushing wheelchairs for around 10 years. First my Mother, then my Stepfather and now my Aunt so I can speak with some knowledge on the subject of invisibility.
No one seems to see them. Cashiers at supermarket tills ask you, the pusher for the money or if you need help packing. People will stop and talk to you and completely ignore the person in the chair. Rarely does anyone hold a door open for you to manouver through. Its as if being pushed in a wheelchair is a sign that you are devoid of sensible thought or communication skills. My Aunt still lives alone, has no home help of any kind, still drives her automatic car, albeit not too far, thoroughly enjoys a good natter and dresses to kill. She is a very smart 85 yr old. No wonder she hates sitting in the wheelchair. What can we do to educate the masses then?

Our Invisible Friends

I can catagorically state with hand on heart that people in wheelchairs are invisible. Conversations are carried out over their heads as if they were not there. Cashiers always address the pusher when asking for money. It seems to be assumed that because someone is pushing them about they are not able to speak for themselves.
I have been pushing wheelchairs off and on for probably ten years. First my Mother, then my Stepfather and now my Aunt so I can speak with some knowledge. My Aunt, bless her, lives alone, does not have any home help at all, still drives her car, albeit not far, dresses to kill, a very smart lady of 85 and enjoys a good chat so I get just a little miffed when people direct their conversation to me pushing her chair rather than look down and speak directly to her. No wonder she hates going in it.

Do I appreciate modern conveniences?

I should be in my bed but can't sleep. I will be the proverbial wet rag in the morning and I have the beds to change and washing to do. What am I worrying about. I have a washing machine and a tumble drier and if I am nifty getting it out of the drier and folded I don't have to iron anything. I feel really spoilt when I cast my mind back to my early teens - fourteen and fifteen. With both parents working and two younger siblings Sunday became a day of work not rest. I had to alternate Sunday jobs with my Mother. One Sunday I did the weeks wash, including bed linen, with my brother turning the mangle and the following Sunday I did the lunch and baking for the week.
We were considered lucky, we had a washhouse which was an eight foot square room with a big bailey sink, electric copper, dolly tub with copper dolly and a mangle. No hot water, just the cold tap. Beds were stripped, bottom sheets and pillow cases in the wash, top sheets then put on the bottom and clean sheets for the top. Mother was very clean and fussy so we all had clean underwear every day. (In those days that was very rare,normally they were worn for a week and only changed on bath night which was once a week although we bathed most nights but had to share water).
All the cottons, sheets, undies, shirts, towels and teatowels, hankies, etc., were boiled in the copper, there was usually at least three copperloads. From the copper into the sink for the first rinse, then into the dollytub which was full of clean water, pummelled with the dolly, put through the mangle and hung on the line.
All non cottons had to be hand washed or dollied. The very last job was tipping the water out of the dolly tub onto the concrete floor and scrubbing it with the yard brush, it had to be almost as white as the washing.
That memory flashback has done me the world of good. I will happily change my beds and wash my sheets in the morning, it will take me all of ten minutes - not counting the machine time - Who said the old days were good days??????

Asking Mary Portas support for crafters recognition

Update on the little kitten.

Dizzy has been in her new home for a week now and has settled very well. They have one small child and don't believe in letting children use animals as toys. Dizzy has taken a particular liking to the man of the house and they are delighted with her. I have telephoned a couple of times to make sure that all is still OK and to keep lines of communication open in case they wish to return her but they assure me that they will never part with her. So 'All's Well that Ends Well'.

Things have moved on since I last blogged. We appear to have become foster parents to the little cat pictured earlier. She has settled down quite a lot and is a joy. Rosie, the dog, has been very tollerant of her skittish ways, all is well with the world.
I still have'nt finished the quilt. It is far too warm to have across ones knee to hand quilt and it's too big to go through my machine, even rolling it with cycle clips. They will have to wait for it I am afraid.
If I remember my history correct it is traditionally a winter job anyway. They used to do the patchwork in the summer and quilt in the winter as it kept one warm whilst working on it. Thats my excuse and I am sticking to it.

Sadly I had my purse stolen last week. Like most of us ladies I had my life tucked inside. Driving licence, bank cards, loyalty cards by the hundred, bus pass, rail pass, leisure pass, gym pass, and on and on and on. Half of those cards no one could use so I hung on before cancelling in case they threw away what they didnt want and they were retrieved. No such luck. Of course I cancelled the important ones but what a mess, I have been all week trying to get them all replaced one way or another. There was no actual cash in it and I stopped the cars before they could get any so, as far as they were concerned, it was a complete waste. They gained nothing but caused me a lot of agro. Drink, drugs and gambling have a lot to answer for cos you can bet your boots that one of these adictions were at the root of it.