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Disability Bitch hates other disabled people again
6th August 2009
Much as I love going on holiday, I HATE QUEUING, and the check in queue is easily one of the worst queues I encounter in an average year.
It's pretty darn obvious that I would hate queuing: as a bipedal I'm rubbish at walking and even worse at standing still. It's a stamina issue. Even leaning on a walking stick, I can only manage about two minutes in line before that familiar twinge hits my spinal muscles. Five minutes later I'll be shifting from foot to foot and necking anti-inflammatories as if they were Smarties. After ten minutes, I'm in so much agony I have to give up and throw myself on the ground, even if that ground has been recently trampled by a herd of elephants with bowel control issues.
But that, readers, is not the source of my anger. After all, no one likes queuing, not even the Normals. No, the cause of my wrath in this matter is OTHER DISABLED PEOPLE.
Specifically, I hate those handicappers who look more disabled than me. All of them. Yes.
My disability is nice and obvious: I walk like a freak and wield a stick when I'm out and about. It serves the same purpose as having the word CRIPPLE tattooed across my forehead but, oddly, is a little easier to deal with.
When positioned in the middle of a large crowded queue, it would seem my disability becomes less noticeable. At least, for the last five hours, every time a wheelchair user has appeared in the same queue that I'm standing in, they've been merrily waved through into some kind of special magic 'priority' queue while I remain here. They disappear through a door in a matter of minutes never to be seen again.
Either this is some secret government euthanasia programme or they are teleporting onto their aeroplanes without so much as a "did you pack these bags yourself, madam"?
Yes, yes, I know. Some wheelchair users have limited stamina too. That's fine. I don't mind those ones being waved through. It's just that in every queue I've ever been in, every wheelchair user who shows up gets waved through priority boarding no questions asked. I, meanwhile, find myself begging pathetically to anyone who looks even vaguely official, rolling up my trouser legs to reveal operation scars, twisting my body to ensure I look especially like a handicapper that morning and roughing up my oh-so-trendy stick so it looks a little more like I was gifted it by some NHS scheme for especially needy folk.
Sometimes it works and I get to join the priority queue. Sometimes I am asked to fill out a twenty page questionnaire detailing my medical history. Sometimes I am asked where my carer is. And sometimes, dear reader, the keepers of the queue are paying me so little attention I find it impossible to make eye contact with them, and they only notice I might need help when several of my fellow queuers are dialling emergency services because I've just collapsed on the ground.
I've had enough. I'm not queuing anymore. I've got a solution, though. Next time I spot a wheelie entering the building, I'm going to grab the handles of their chair and claim to be their carer, making patronising comments about them as I do so. It's a sure-fire method of getting into the priority boarding club.
I'm hoping this little trick will also get me upgraded to first class.
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