#71

My apartment is not disable friendly, it's something I must seriously look into. I can do nothing about the height of the light switches, but I can saw a foot of the kitchen table, lower the work surfaces and cupboards and make the bathroom a little more accessible. I've spoken to John about this but he says he doesn't want “any fuss!” that “as long as the route is clear I'm a happy chappy!” That's very considerate of him, but without these changes he will be less independent and more reliant upon me. I hope he's not giving up, surrendering to a fate that is in no way decided. I'll mention that to the doctor this afternoon.

Yesterday mother phoned. She asked some questions about “John” (not “Joan”) and then shocked me into a premature bowel ache by saying she'd like him to come along to the family gathering on the 24th to mourn the fifth anniversary of my fathers death. I may be naïve, but I am no fool. The reason “Joan” is now “John” and also welcome around my mothers table is purely wheelchair related. But not because she has any particular fondness for the disabled, no, she figures that if John is chair bound then our friendship can only be a legitimate one, that we cannot possible be queer lovers. The tragedy is that for the moment she is correct.

As mother rattled on, I spied John nodding asleep in his chair. “Yes mother” I groaned, pulling my erection free of my pants “he's paralysed from the waist down... can't feel a dicky bird.” And as she used up her last 57 seconds of credit, I furiously wanked away, praying intensely that John would/would not open his large brown eyes and just for a second look my way.