Yesterday was a bummer and today started no better. After getting John up and mobile he once again insisted that I wheel him outside and park him up alongside the binbags. I was hoping he would let off with that for a day, but John is a man who turns the knife slowly once he's embedded it in someone's back. As I pushed him down the hall in his tennis shorts and a handicap international t-shirt I suddenly thought: Where does my free will end and being abusive begin? For example, what if I didn't push him outside, but instead carried on to the kitchen, planted him at the table and slammed a cup of scolding hot tea down besides him? What if I said “Go out yourself!” but put the top latch on the door which he cannot reach? What if I removed the outside ramp because it hurts my gout ridden foot? What if I thought the hat stand looked good in the middle of the hallway? Well all those things would hurt John, could even make his life hell. So just what can I say “no!” to and what constitutes abuse? Why should I push John outside to the postboy? It's a complicated issue and one that could ultimately affect a mans freedom. But John also has decisions to make. He must also question what he asks for and where he wants to go. I think a phone call to the Flaming Chef is on the cards. For today John's desire was granted.

At 9.45 I put the phone down and rushed out to get John. He was slumped so far down in his chair that for a minute I thought it was just a pile of clothes. It seems Brian took an unscheduled day off work. “John, come on, we've got to get you out of those clothes and into something more fitting. The hospitals just phoned and apparently the press will be there today... it seems you going electric is HUGE news!”
“What, the press???” he quizzed, now looking a little more enthusiastic “for me? Why?”
“Well I don't know, it all seems a little hush hush, but it looks like you're going to be a star, now come on!”
With John half wheeling and me pushing we hurried back inside. 20 minutes later John was in a smart black suit and white shirt. His hair was gelled up and his Elvis Costello type glasses polished clear;
“How do I look?” he asked, holding out his arms
“Like a million bucks, My Man, like a million fucking dollars!”

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