Eight Days a Week

It was such a jam-packed week that the flavor was definitely multi-fruit!

It included a meet-cute with a barber inspired by Richard Curtis (rom-com writer of “Notting Hill” and others). As no romance — or indeed, bromance — was involved, it was more of a meet-cut.

I’ve written a number of times about trips to get my hair cut. They are shaggy human stories, as the logistics involved are complex. Since being restricted to a wheelchair last February, getting out of the house was tough enough. Then I had to get to the barber’s. Getting a mobile hairdresser was impossible — I’ve long given up on that idea.

This time it was a breeze.

My house adaption was finally finished. I could get out of my front door and sweep down the newly laid drive. I was also in my new electric wheelchair as I went off to get my hair cut on my ownsome.

Modern houses no longer have an outhouse, but this adaption means I can now get out of the house! (Photo by John Connor)

So, the meet-cut.

The nearest barber is open seven days a week. I asked the guy who was snipping away how many days he worked. His reply was, “I’ve got so much rent to pay, it’s eight days a week.”

“That’s a Beatles song,” I remarked.

Nothing.

Somewhat ironically, I was thrust into the scenario of Curtis’ new movie “Yesterday.” The conceit being that no one in the world knows The Beatles except one failed singer-songwriter. I tried to explain the irony of finding a person who doesn’t know The Beatles while describing the film’s plot point.

The barber did a far better job on my hair then I managed with the logical spiral I’d initiated.

We went back to talking about the weather.

My week felt very much like an eight-dayer. I’d been out to work in London on Tuesday as usual. What was unusual was the next day I was up early for a trip to Wimbledon for tennis. I only live a few miles away, so the journey is not too onerous. We arrived in plenty of time. Unfortunately, though, all of the officials are tremendously solicitous — we are in the nexus of the English middle-class — “nobody knows anything.” I’m sticking with my movie motif: William Goldman’s famous quote about Hollywood.

I found myself gazing out of a window at concrete instead of looking at the opening game on No. 1 Court. My position was not my own choice but rather due to the lack of signposting for disabled routes, and that was where officials had directed me.

No. 1 Court at Wimbledon has a spanking new roof. Not sure of this restricted view, though. (Photo by John Connor)

After much faffing about, we finally met someone senior enough to show us the way.

He seemed very put out that nobody knew anything — if he was that important surely he should have made sure that his staff knew such things. Still, I got there in time to see English player Heather Watson beaten. Not by a player significantly better, but when you’re there in person, you can feel the psychological difference — it’s a form of theater.

The Tennis Brothers — with my son Jack. (Photo by John Connor)

So, Thursday was going over my new van day. The company that had adapted and supplied it conducted a follow-up visit to look at any problems. It is a tremendous service — of which I’ll admit I hadn’t been aware. We’d all struggled with how to use the seat belt when I traveled in my chair. Despite a detailed description and a YouTube video, we were all flummoxed. But it took mere minutes to demonstrate. It also transpires that I need to have something called a dock-and-lock system fitted so that I can drive the van safely on my own.

At the moment, there’s no way to secure my chair and get into the driver’s seat without assistance.

Now that is being dealt with. Hurrah!

Friday was recovery day. I was so fatigued it was like having a hangover except, thankfully, without the headache or nausea.

I couldn’t get out of bed without help.

This was worrying as I was going to spend the weekend “Home Alone.”

Yes, reader, that’s the title of next week’s column.

A sequel!

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