It's called Dave's Newsagents. I don't know why. Robbie runs the show, more or less, and everybody knows him as 'Dave the Papers'. That's become his label, his identity so to speak.
Two side streets, cross Pantygwydr Road, six trees, five lampposts. Exactly twelve swings of the cane and I'm in the front door.

Twenty Marlboro Lights and a Kit-kat please, I must have said that countless times over the past eight years. I've got to tell him, put them in my hand please, but as usual I say nothing. He puts my items on last week's People's Friend, or in a kaleidoscope of confectionery.
Can't he see my problem? he's seen this white cane for years. No - it's my fault I'm a fraud, why should he guess?
Why pretend to be normal? Why deny who I really am? Maybe I'm afraid of my label.

So the experiment dawned, pretend to be somebody else, go the whole hog. I donned the darkest, wrap around, mirrored glasses. Slipped on a grubby Mac, like Colonel Blink, I'd seen in childhood comics.
With blind determination I tapped my way between boxes of Golden Wonder. Apologised to the carousel of get well soon cards, and cheerily announced "Good Morning."
It worked. Assistance literally vaulting counters, offering arms, positively oozing sympathy. With a dramatic gesture I whipped off the glasses and with irony said, it's really me.

So the hypothesis was proved. I was being the blind man, acting my part, an acceptable identity. So why pretend, why have I denied myself for so many years? Why do a few simple words weigh heavier than a sentence. It was always a compliment, so I thought, when hearing "You don't look blind, you look quite normal..."
It wasn't a compliment at all, it was getting away with it.

So it seems being normal in society's eyes means prolonging the image, playing a role. Avoiding and pretending. No, not anymore, I made a promise, I will be myself.

Andrew Hubbard, December 2002.