I'm so excited. And I just can't hide it.

You know, being in the loo at the acupuncture clinic when That Bloke Off Of Hollyoaks Who Used To Be On Grange Hill wants to use it is all very well, but it pales into complete insignificance in comparison with meeting an artist one genuinely admires. Particularly when that meeting was completely unexpected.

Long term readers of these occasionally-entertaining ramblings will recall Lady Bracknell's great pleasure at learning that Willard Wigan had received an MBE. Not to mention the Ouch blog entry I had written slightly earlier in an attempt to alert the wider crip community to Willard's genius. (In looking at that again, I recall that the title I gave it was replaced with one of his Damonship's choosing. Not that I'm resentful about that in any way, you understand.)


Well, I was alerted by Chris Osteopath during his manipulations of me on Tuesday afternoon to the fact that the Willard Wigan exhibition at the Hard Day's Night gallery had been extended until the end of his month. (I had missed it earlier because I was not at that point fit enough to fight my way through the crowds of pedestrians.)


I fancied nothing more than a little snooze this afternoon, but Pop wisely insisted that I ought to go out instead. (Please don't assume Pop is prescient - I'd never hear the end of it if he got the idea of that sort of talent into his head. Indeed, when I asked him yesterday why he feels the need to wind me up quite so much, he explained that it is because I am clockwork: I have to be wound up if I am not to run down completely.)

So, off I headed to the bus stop. Once in town, I threaded my way carefully through the mass of pedestrians thronging Liverpool One in a not-looking-where-they-were-going sort of way, and emerged at the other side, slightly dishevelled, but not really any the worse for wear. From there, it was but a short hobble to the gallery. As I paid for my ticket to the exhibit, the nice young woman who took my money explained that Willard just happened to be visiting to spruce up a couple of the exhibits, and was answering questions upstairs.



Hurtling up flights of stairs is not generally one of my strongest suits, but I made a creditable stab at it. And, lo! There he was. Willard Wigan. Crip royalty. In the flesh. Handsome, charming, impeccably-dressed, and absolutely delightful. So delightful, in fact, that he was happy to be photographed next to one of his sculptures.

(No, he doesn't sculpt plexi-domes. That would be silly. He sculpts pieces which are so incredibly tiny that many are actually invisible to the naked eye. Hence the dome and the microscope eye-piece. His work is astonishing.)

I am largely unmoved by the modern cult of celebrity. But I consider it a genuine honour and a privilege to have shaken Willard Wigan's hand, and to have had the opportunity to tell him how much I admire his work.

When I got home and attempted to convey my excitement to Pop, he was quite grumpy. I can't imagine why...

The Editor

Bizarre, tangential links to very minor celebrities #1

Dr Hazel, my acupuncturist, has confirmed that she does treat That Bloke Off Of Hollyoaks Who Used To Be On Grange Hill.

This means that it was That Bloke Off Of Hollyoaks Who Used To Be On Grange Hill who apologised to me for having rattled the toilet door when I was in there a few weeks ago.




In other news, nothing sharpens the mind like the realisation that it was only one's inherent slowness of gait which saved one from being mown down on the Pelican Crossing by the boy racer to whom red lights are apparently just a sign to speed up.

The Editor

Note to committee member

Yes, thank you: you are the sixth person to bring this to my attention.

I am aware that it is completely unacceptable. And that something needs to be done, and done urgently, to prevent its ever coming to fruition.

But, when I tell you that I am working on it right now, that means I am working on it right now.

Phoning me three times while I am working on it - and offering to give me your private email address in case I haven't finished it before you go home - is not helping.

The Editor

Twa Corbies*

Readers with exceptionally long and accurate memories may recall me mentioning more than twelve months ago that I have long wished to explore the cemetery on Smithdown Road. (I now know that its official name is the Toxteth Park cemetery.)



Now that I am (relatively) as fit as a flea - i.e. all the acupuncture I have had has got me back to approximately where I was four years ago: a point, I should add, at which I thought I was as impaired as it was tolerable to be - I decided to take advantage of the good weather this morning and finally make good on my promise to myself.



It is rather unfortunate that I didn't see the sign which said no photographs were to be taken without permission until after I had taken more than fifty photographs. Having said that, I did encounter various members of groundskeeping staff, none of whom seemed to be remotely perturbed by the sight of my camera. And I did take great care to avoid taking pictures of any of the modern graves, particularly those which are still well-tended.



A selection of the photographs I took is in my Flickr stream, which you can access via the rather flashy gadget to the left of the page. (If you hadn't already noticed that it had recently started to flash up photographs of things other than superlambananas, you may now understand why I haven't been keeping up with my blog very well of late. I may be fit as a flea, but I don't have enough spoons to wander about, camera in hand, and blog.) But I digress.



So, anyway, I've decided there's a lot to be said for cremation. Because, apparently, if you choose burial, and your nearest and dearest cobble together the money for a fine headstone for your grave, that headstone will eventually fall over and become a birdbath for some pretty sinister-looking carrion crows. Which is probably not what you or your grieving family had in mind, really...

* It's a Scottish song.

The Editor

Just saying...

Occasionally, it would be very nice to get on a bus which only has two other passengers and find that at least one of them has had the consideration not to sit in one of the two seats which are supposed to be left free for disabled passengers.

The Editor