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London: Solo Style


The beauty of finding your independence is that you push boundaries, hope for the best and, in general, wing it. On Saturday, I went to London – solo style.

The problem with me is I can’t say “no” to anything, so when I received an invitation to participate in a research project which is run by University College London, in collaboration with National Children’s Bureau, the answer was obviously “yes”. I love the work NCB do, and any research project that’s carried out well offers an opportunity for change. I’m not going to fill you in now, because there’s a lot to get your head around, but check out Sunday’s blog.

Anyway, with personal assistant rotas that require me to tweak them, it soon became apparent that taking someone with me wasn’t going to be viable. My options were to cancel or to wing it and being a professional winger, the latter seemed reasonable. The worst that could happen? As my mum once said, I could get raped or kidnapped, I could fall down the gap between the train and the platform, or I could pee myself and the entirety of Pride would know. It was okay though because if I died the Queen of Silver Linings had a hearse ready.

My excursion started with a bang as the train left without me. During the process of futilely attempting to catch it, in the best way someone on wheels can, the rain accessorised my summer look with items from the Drowned Rat range. However, missing the train by a minute meant I had the luxury of peeing on a loo for a second time, so, you know, everything happens for a reason.

Having boarded the train which involved successfully mastering the ramp that should come with an ‘upside down turtle’ warning, I peered down to check how soaked my clothes were. It turned out that was the least of my concerns. The boob tube I thought would be perfect for the heatwave, was slowly working its way down my torso. The Pride parades would have so much more to marvel at than wet knickers but I suppose flashing is a very forward method to get the hot chicks flocking in my direction. I’d just have to get my ‘Caution: Wet Floor’ sign out.

We arrived in Peterborough and I was joined by a family who were celebrating. Out popped the Champers, croissants, and boxes upon boxes of fruit salad. A glass or two was raised, excessive public displays of affection were had and all I could think was; ‘My tits do not need to get in on the action’, combined with ‘I’m beginning to need a pee’. What a memorable occasion that would have been for them.

I’ve never felt as short as I did heading through Kings Cross. There’re always a million people charging in every direction, as though if they don’t get to where they need to be, the world will end. And then there’s fun-sized me pottering along, in search of any wheelchair accessible vehicle that’d be willing to take me. To no avail, I jumped in a black cab and hoped the driver didn’t catapult me out the window when he turned enthusiastically around the corner or braked with considerable force. I fell out of the taxi and almost cracked my head open. However, thanks to the abnormally strong muscles of the driver, who managed to pull off a quirky re-enactment of Lion King’s The Circle of Life, I was carefully lowered to the ground in one piece.

I crashed through the door mildly fashionably late, but I hadn’t died or peed yet, so I classed that as a win. Luckily, the journey was well worth my while as it was by far the best research project I’d been to. The only thing I wasn’t keen on was the jacket potatoes, but that’s because I’m a weirdo who doesn’t like potato. All in all, it was a productive day.

The trip back to the station wasn’t ever going to be easy on the grounds that by this point I’d put a cork in it for seven hours. I’d come prepared with Tena Lady pants, so if the worse came to the worst, I had a failsafe. All I’ll say was it came in very useful.

What’s the moral to the story? Push boundaries, know that you probably won’t die and buy shares in Tena Lady.

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