Being George

I went shopping in a wheelchair even though I'm completely able-bodied. My friend George lent me her spare one so I could experience how she’s treated on a day to day basis. It was a real eye opener. The rules were simple: absolutely no getting out of the chair until the mission is complete.

I’d assumed we’d be getting the train to Leeds, but George explained that unless there's a guard on the train or at the station, you have to rely on a passenger to sort out the ramp. Or wait for the next train. It was also raining, so we needed an undercover shopping centre because you can’t hold a brolly and wheel a chair at the same time – and who wants to browse in a wet cagoule? Also, Leeds is quite hilly and it wasn’t a work-out we were after, it was merchandise. Clearly, George knew what she was doing, so drove us to the best disabled-friendly shopping centre she knows - The Trafford Centre, in Manchester.

We parked outside Selfridges and I got both chairs out of the boot, then plonked myself in the spare one next to George. Yes, I did get some funny looks, but we’d decided that if anyone asked I would either come clean or say “I don’t like talking about it.” George furnished me with some rubber finger-less gloves to stop blisters forming and a key for the disabled toilets. Then we were off. Double trouble. This was a first for George too because she’d never been shopping with another wheelchair user.

The first comment came outside the disabled loos: “Aw, do you have to take it in turns?” Seriously? WTF? I just smiled and nodded as the woman looked on sympathetically. I felt a fraud standing up once I was safely locked inside the toilet, but one step at a time, I reasoned. Second comment came from a shopper in Zara Home “Ooh, it’s Bill & Ben.”

Everything looks different from lower down. It was good in the toy department because all the fun stuff was at eye level, but when we went to Café Nero all I could see was a row of wafer biscuits and an adjacent pensioner’s groin. This won’t be news to anyone who uses a chair all the time, but I had to ask for our drinks to be brought over and I could barely see the card machine for payment because the wire didn’t stretch far enough down. I gambled and tapped my card, but I could have been paying nine hundred pounds for a latte for all I knew.

After re-fueling, George sent me off on a solo mission. I had to go to a shoe department and use a lift. I’ve never been so aware of flooring. Most shops have hard floors, but then within department stores, the franchises are sometimes set on carpet. Carpet, I’ve learned, is a bitch to wheel across. And that’s when you’ve finally got onto it, over the giant lip which threatens to tip you backwards. The second time, I reversed up to Carvela, but really felt like I was getting in the way of other customers. You can’t just sidle past someone to look at sandals. Either they have to back up or you do. This was when I first noticed people physically looking down on me. I had to look up at them and it felt like I was pleading.

I was keen to impress George, so tried two different lifts. The main glass elevator in the centre of the mall was the easiest. There was plenty of room to turn my chair around once I was in, but it was weird being face to face with a sleeping baby and again, being looked down upon by a mother. I wanted to say "I've got children too, you know." But what was I trying to prove? That I wasn't really disabled? That - guess what - disabled people could have sex, babies and husbands too? It felt weird and I kept quiet.

It was a whole different sketch in River Island. For a start, when I tried to pull the lift door open, it continued to open of its own accord and I had to swiftly back up out of the way. Then it just stopped. A man on his mobile casually opened it for me and nodded so I could get in. But the space inside was really narrow so I couldn't turn around without a right kerfuffle. I pressed the up button and it went up for a second then halted. I pressed it again and it went up for another second and halted again. I thought Oh God, I’m going to get stuck, then my claustrophobia will kick in, then I’ll have to press the panic button and everyone will know I’m a fake when I run out. But then I spotted, in quite small writing, a sign that said “press and hold the button to operate the lift.” Fine, if you’ve got steady hands. What if you have ataxia? It would be like being on an horrific theme park ride. When I reached the first floor, I then had to turn my chair around because the entrance to the lift and the exit from the lift were through different doors. I didn’t even want to buy anything from the top floor – it was menswear – but felt should get out wheel around anyway so people didn’t think I was crackers.

On my way back to George, I noticed Gap had a sale on, so popped in. This was really disappointing because all the sale rails were so tightly placed together that there was absolutely no way I could wheel in between them. There were about five rails of jeans and tops that ordinarily, I’d have spent a good fifteen minutes flicking through. It was probably the first time I’ve left a Gap sale empty handed.

When I re-met George and told her of my plight she wasn’t in the least bit surprised. She thought it was time for a bit of fun. Now that I’d got the hang of the chair a bit more, we wondered if we’d be able to pull each other along, for a bit of a jape. So George leaned forward and grabbed onto my handles at the back and we gave it a go. Because the chairs are so well made, we got a right pace on. George was killing herself laughing behind me and we got some very strange glances. Next time, I’m going to take giant reins then she can steer me like a horse and cart.

It’s tiring though, all that arm work. Even though I do a fair bit of swimming, you need good upper body strength to be able to use a chair with ease. On a shopping trip like that, it really helps if you can plan where you want to go to first, but obviously, that takes any spontaneity out of the event. I made the rookie error of writing a list of shops down, but not their location, so ended up doing about seven laps of the Trafford Centre before finally reaching Waterstones. When I asked a friendly looking shopper and his wife if they knew the way, they went over and above to help – checking their app and even offering to lead me there. I only needed an ordnance survey map for my husband’s walking holiday. The guy in the shop obligingly reached the item from the top shelf for me, but he must have wondered if I was taking the mick.

Going for lunch was easier than I expected though. I thought the restaurant would look at two wheelchairs and wonder where on earth to put us. But they simply took a couple of seats away and asked if we’d prefer to sit next to or opposite each other. The tone of voice was definitely patronising, but I don’t think it was intentional. I allowed myself a small glass of wine when George had a prosecco, but daren’t have anymore. Drunk in a wheelchair is a whole other level of chaos. But when I took my gloves off to raise a glass, I noticed my fingers had black marks on them from where they’d rubbed on the wheels.

In general, I found most shop assistants to be helpful. The chap in Muji went over and above when I asked for some out-of-stock flipflops. He had a rummage in the back room and brought out the last box to my knee. When I asked the lady on the till in Ted Baker to take a photo of George and I with all our shopping, she gave us a load more bags to make the picture funnier. And when we went to the Levi shop, the fit assistant took his time to get various styles of jeans and shirts out for us to see properly. Towards the end of the trip though, when I had lots of bags balanced on my knee, I felt I was being watched like a shoplifter in Lakeland. A sense of being closely followed by a detective trying to catch me stuffing a melon baller into my knickers.

So what did George get from our day out? Well, she enjoyed me being at eye level with her all the time, we had a good laugh and she appreciated someone wheeling a mile in her shoes for a change. But there’s a vast chasm of difference between a day and a lifetime in a wheelchair. When George dropped me home, I stepped out of the car and walked into my house. So really, I don't know what it's like to be George at all.