Ah, the sequel.
Back in April, I wrote about getting an electric wheelchair and then spending hours working out how to get it going.
Six months later, I may have cracked the challenge of driving it without putting cracks in my house.
When a district nurse visited last week, she said that she could always tell when there was a power wheelchair user in the house by the gouges in the bottom of the door frames.
However careful I am, and even when I stay in low gear, grazes occur. After all, I’ve replaced my legs with what is effectively a mini-tank!
Besides the struggle of getting your nonworking legs onto the footrests, the latter tend to switch to destroy mode at the slightest miscalculation. So far, I’ve not been a drunk driver. But late at night, when I’ve self-medicated in the California fashion, my judgment goes. Though I might want to go slower, there’s no gear for that.
It’s all too fast.
My architraves have taken a right battering!
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