Accessibility and a Tale of Four Airports

Blind Spots in Accessibility

An AI-generated infographic on the blog content. (Click to enlarge.)

I have come to notice how many blind spots exist in the provision of access and accessibility services across so many domains. Nowhere was this more obvious than at the international airports in Manchester, Amsterdam, Paris, and Cape Town.

Using the customer assistance service, the first thing I noticed was that while a space had been set aside for people who required help to get around the airports and then to or from their flights, the toilets were never nearby.

The ideal would be simple enough: situate the toilets close to the waiting areas, and perhaps ask the people who actually use the service what they would like improved about their experience.

Lost Without Signage

In Amsterdam, there was a setup where you had to go through security simply to use a toilet. I was beside myself with frustration and discomfiture when I needed the facilities, for there was no information or signage to guide you, and all at the risk of soiling yourself.

You wonder, did anyone really think about what the need for an accessibility service actually entailed, or did they merely tick a box for providing a space without any further consideration? The mind boggles.

One would think the most immediate need of anyone using that service would be reaching the toilets without being lost in the wilderness, like the Israelites of old.

A Tale of Four Airports

The failings were not all of a kind. In Manchester and Cape Town, the problem was the sheer distance from the waiting areas to the toilets, which becomes acute when you have no one to look over your things.

Paris, frankly, was forgettable: language barriers at an airport that deals with an international clientele, and the experience of being abandoned without any information on who would serve you or how you would be taken around.

I raise all this not out of grievance but out of expectation. We all want to travel and enjoy the experience as much as possible; it is the very reason we apply for airport assistance in the first place, expecting not to be put upon or frustrated by it.

In Fairness to Staff

To be fair, the staff are generally helpful. The trouble is that some airports are badly short-staffed. I can recall one occasion where a single member of staff had to handle four passengers who all needed this service at once. You feel for them, caught in a logistical mishap that leaves us victims of what amounts to sheer incompetence higher up.

Cape Town, I must say, has provided the best help of all. I am met at the flight and wheeled through passport control to baggage reclaim, where my helper is joined by another to collect my luggage. I am then taken to the taxi stand, where the two of them help load my things onto the vehicle, as happens at no other airport.

Priority Spaces Ignored

Beyond the airports lies the public understanding of disability, or of needing assistance. I have lost count of the times I have boarded a bus and found the priority spaces for the pregnant, the aged, or the disabled not only occupied by seemingly able-bodied people, but taken up further by their bags and goods, the owners totally oblivious and unconscious of those who need them.

Sometimes you will be noticed and offered the seat, yet I know how many times I have had to ask, especially on the trains or on the tube in London.

Not Fred Astaire

Walking the streets presents another dilemma, as I use a walking cane. Though I am a brisk walker, I would not pretend to be nimble on my feet. Even so, you find people expecting you to give way, as though you were Fred Astaire stepping out to dance, cane in hand, sweeping across the pavement with the fluidity of a swan floating on the air, displaying the kind of dexterity that modern dancers could never aspire to perform.

Well, I simply stump my cane into the ground and wait. You go around me, rather than expect me to manoeuvre around you, when you have perfect ambulation to swing, swerve, skip, or jump. The walking cane is not a fashion accessory; it is an aid to get me around.

Mind the Blind Spot

Access and accessibility have their requirements, so please, do not usurp the space ahead of those who need it more than you do. None of this is difficult to put right. Site the facilities where they are needed, staff the service properly, and, above all, ask the people who use it. That is all we are asking for, and it is not very much.

These, after all, are the blind spots that good intentions leave behind, and they are mended not by grand gestures but by the simple act of noticing. That, in the end, is all accessibility asks of any of us. Thank you.

A Gemini Notebook AI Podcast on this blog

Crumbs In Our Wake

Crumbs in Our Wake

As we walk the quiet streets of our cities in the assumed isolation of our seemingly contented spaces, we so easily and unknowingly leave crumbs of who and what we are in our wake.

Others, like pigeons of the air, swoop down and peck away at those crumbs, a meal provided by the divine hand of providence, in whom we can scarcely believe cares enough for us, even when neither bird nor beast worries, for provision does indeed come.

These crumbs tell other stories, the ones we cannot let go of because unanswered questions remain. It is unlikely we would ever get the opportunity to satisfy the curiosity that one strange encounter brings into view, even as we try to mind our own business.

A Chance Encounter

Much earlier today, a lady was coming towards me, pushing a pram. I presumed she was a grandmother, and not a walking miracle of Sarah begetting Isaac after the incredulity of her laughter at the idea that she could still bear a child.

She was adjusting a paper windmill, or pinwheel, and for that alone the expectation was that a child, reclined in the pram, was being entertained or distracted with the novelty of a spinning attraction. Had small talk ensued, it would have been about seeing a pleasantly focused, smiling toddler, whilst commending the grandmother for keeping the child at peace.

The Doll in the Pram

As I walked past, I looked to see a grinning face, teeth showing with the gaiety of the widest smile possible, even legs being thrown up in the air in acknowledgement of the object positioned for their attention. Nothing of the sort; the passenger in the ornate perambulator was a doll, unmistakably the plastic rigidity of a lifeless presence that only a doll could muster.

There was no need for a double take, but one did vacillate between concern and sympathy. Concern that this story was one of mental illness brought into the public sphere; the wish for a child now given over to the taking of a doll for an outing, with all the presence of mind to furnish that doll with the trimmings that might accompany a child.

Sympathy and Grace

Then came sympathy for whatever the tragic story might be, such as the loss of a grandchild remembered daily in this sad display of grief that I had now uncomfortably witnessed. A daily upset for her, and a lingering one for me, for how do you ask the pertinent questions?

There might be another angle, though, beyond concern or sympathy, this being eccentricity, and we all have some of that in us in different measures. Whether this be suffering expressed so vividly, or an expression too quickly misunderstood, the reality of a person's private world is not that private when brought into the public sphere.

A Good Samaritan Nature

Yet even this might not begin to cover the spectrum of life experiences that became that momentary observation, for any person's story is barely told in a brief encounter. Rather, what we know in part might define them too narrowly in comparison to who they really are.

And if we were to ignore the things we see, we could, in that very mindset, miss the moment when someone in distress could do with our Good Samaritan nature and our help.

Yet, in the crumbs that the pigeons do get to feed on, is a complete meal not better than manna, without a care for what tomorrow brings? There, but for the grace of God, go we, so that whatever story we tell might be a blessing to another.

A Gemini Notebook AI Podcast on this blog

An AI-generated infographic on the blog content.

Coronavirus streets in Manchester - LXXII

What I thought I saw

For once, I thought I was watching a circus act, an elephant on a bicycle riding on the pavement against road traffic until I noticed he had no trunk, just a truck of a backside to task a tape measure at the tailors.

Manchester as I went out shopping is in a kind of festive mode, as 2024 ushers in the bicentennial of the University of Manchester and Manchester Metropolitan University that both trace their origins to the Mechanics’ Institute founded in 1824.

Oxford Road is the artery that links these two universities bustling with crowds of students and all the services that cater to their needs. The banners are up and soon the bands and parties will set up to play.

Pandemic to pandemonium

The number of people still donning face masks would suggest the pandemic still rages, invisible as it might seem, I was chatting to someone on Sunday who had just recovered from a bout of COVID-19, we still need to be cautious and careful.

St Peter’s House used to be the chaplaincy to the broader university community that included the Royal Northern College of Music, though the food bank services remain in the building, the sadly poorly run organisation seems to have closed.

I was an observer of an employment dispute last year that to me showed that there were too many conflicting interests in the running of the place, the trustees were derelict in their scrutinising responsibilities, and it became evident that new engagements that sought to change how things were run met with both resistance and opposition.

It is a sad development and though a Catholic chaplaincy exists further up the road, I would hope this institution is revived with better hands and those with a heart to serve the community for which they exist.

The look and warmth of love

The Whitworth festooned within Whitworth Park is a place I last visited in January last year at the launching of an exhibition that was to run for the full year, I did think I would return to see the exhibition proper, but I never did.

Meanwhile, even in the freezing cold of winter, a few benches were occupied by couples at different stages of the expression of affection, the warmth of love cannot be assailed by the weather. You are left thinking of when you might find the beauty of that expression for yourself.

I rarely allow myself to just watch the heaving beautiful life of Manchester, even with the effects of the pandemic barely out of memory, we have a city that is thriving, lively, and changing at a rate that is, well, astounding.

Coronavirus streets in Manchester - LXVI

Breaking my stride

The fear of abandonment was palpable during a chance encounter with a lady I met on one of my walks late at night. Our conversation began on the note of her acknowledging that I was working hard at my fitness, if only it showed that well, I’ll be a happier man.

As I responded to the compliment, she intimated that she was a victim of some sort of domestic violence which I then learnt was an orchestrated gang rape in a sheltered setting for which the main protagonist had been sentenced to 11 years in prison.

She obviously needed help and I slowed down so she could walk with me, it felt she needed someone to talk to and I was quite disposed to listen and see what I could do to help. I could not give her money as most transactions are cashless, but I offered that we might be able to find a place that takes contactless payments to get her a few essentials.

And we talked

The back-and-forth conversation included my revealing I am gay, I have a partner and our domestic situation when we are together. She made saucy and cheeky comments about what might make me attractive to my partner and much else, she was funny and quite lucid, very aware of the dangers on the street.

She apologised for slowing me down as she was still recovering from the 87 stitches that she received for her injuries. I learnt she was a grandmother, she had had some nasty relationships and been with some rather notorious and violent partners, some of whom had negatively coloured her view of life and survival.

Along the way, she called out to a couple of men who were huddled in a doorway, she volunteered that they were on spice, a synthetic cannabinoid with debilitating side effects sometimes leading to fatalities, and this is on the streets around us to which many of us are totally oblivious.

Trust is scarce

We were planning on going to a night shop, but as I realised we were only about half a kilometre from my home, I would rush home to pick up a few things for her and get my bank card to withdraw some money for her. I have never tried to second-guess what people might do with the money I give them, nor do I want to police what they do with it. It is for them to decide what their immediate need is and to either wisely or unwisely attend to that.

When I told her, I can run home to get a few things, she began to cry thinking I was about to abandon her. I could understand, yet I would only give her assurances that I would return apart from the fact that I did not really want to reveal where I lived. Besides, some people are so desperately in need of help and support beyond the immediacy of what we can do for them in that moment.

Completely worn down

On one occasion, in attending to someone in desperate need, I made the mistake of giving him my phone number, first, he said, he had lost the money I had given him to get shelter for the night, and when I still engaged and secured the shelter, through the night, I was bombarded with calls and pleas, more than 40 of them and it continued to the next day.

I happened to see him a few days after and by then I had been so worn down that there was not a scimitar of empathy left in me as I shouted at him and told him how he made me regret ever meeting him at all. He was never ever to contact me ever again and if he approached me, I would tackle him as a mugger. It was the kind of thing that could sear your conscience against having the milk of human kindness, then again, every person’s circumstance is different.

In the readiness to help, the helped, despite their situation, circumstances, and history should be careful and that is difficult, to not frustrate their helpers with untrammelled demands, we all have limited capacity to address issues that are essentially endemic and in need of more professionally coordinated approaches for long term benefit to those that require it.

Willing to angel

I ran home and got a coat, a scarf, pairs of socks, and the thermal underwear that I bought for my sister when she was in Iceland, but I never got to post, and a few snacks packed into a bag, not forgetting my bank card, and rushed out again.

She was still waiting for me, as I took to one side and showed her everything I had brought before giving her some money. She asked if I was sure I wanted to give her what I had already given her, I guess this thought comes with the concept that the generosity from strangers could be in short supply for those in desperate need. I do wonder if giving them a lot of money can do a perverse thing of changing the concept of value, in terms of what they need.

That is probably something for social scientists, psychologists, or anthropologists to study, I can only do my bit in within the means that I have. What could I do when she started crying at what I had been given the opportunity to do? I embraced her and told her, to think of it as if her had just met an angel. Even on the streets of Manchester, there is goodness, kindness, and mercy for all, those who have and many more who do not have much at all.

Coronavirus streets in Manchester - XLIX

Booked to rights

The first sign of recovery, I was already thinking of where to have brunch and I booked a table with Trove at Ancoats. Their booking principle reminds me of the principle that governs the computer networking facility to prevent Denial of Service (DoS) attacks.

You are free to book a table, but you have to submit your credit card details from which a fee is deducted for a no-show. There is also a time limit on your use of the table for an hour. That way, anyone who decides to book all tables may deprive the restaurant of custom, but not of revenue.

The Denial-of-Service attack principle takes up all resources to contact a website but is not committed, a commitment is demanded in mitigation which if not fulfilled is denied, freeing up the website from being overwhelmed.

A pandemic forgotten

I arrived masked up, not that I noticed any of the customers masking up at, the ones that came to buy bread or the some sat at tables. Though it was a bit disconcerting to see someone who until who opened her mouth ajar in a big yawn without bothering to shield or cover the cavernous depths of that cavity departing the epithet of lady to suddenly and shockingly too. The cough that came after was not disguised, expelling to the air everything and anything.

We seem to have forgotten there is still a pandemic out here and out there, even more importantly is the need for the consideration of others if one should expect some manners of a sort. I comforted myself with appreciating the distance between us and settled into my breakfast of eggs benedict with cavolo nero, better known as Italian kale.

From mobile to paper

Walking back through Arndale Shopping Centre, expectations were low for any pandemic precautions, I did what I needed to do and was on my way home. Then I passed two elderly men appearing lost and trying to find their bearings to some place.

We have long been using Google Maps they had a book I probably last used twenty-something years ago, an A-to-Z Street Atlas for Manchester. I did not know they were still in print, the latest version on Amazon was printed in 1999. Current, it won’t be, by a long stretch, except in old Manchester city and its environs.

Coronavirus streets in Manchester - XXIX

It is cool outside

Even as the temperature is failing to rise in the last few days of spring as we move into summer, Mancunians are making the best of the eased lockdown. I have avoided the crowds, but they cannot be escaped, all outside, alfresco dining in the evening with heating or blankets to keep the patrons warm.

The coolness means not many are sitting on the grass though the litter they leave behind is evident everywhere you go. The annoying thing is the selfish and antisocial dog owners who do not clean up after their pets after the footpaths or pavements have been fouled.

No trampling by tram

On my home straight this evening just after I passed the Victoria Station to my right, I noticed one of the public trams leaving Exchange Square for the station was not moving at the speed one would expect. A man who appeared to be walking on the other side was in fact in front of the tram, holding it up.

Normally, the tram driver would sound a warning to pedestrians in their path, but this was a different kind of trouble who first sauntered in front of the tram, then lay on the tram tracks before doing sit-ups and taunting the driver to call the police to take him away.

We all have crazy

Fascinating as it seemed that I stopped to take some pictures, one could not say if this was a death wish, a mental health scenario, or a desperate cry for help. It was not long before I saw a police van travelling on the tram tracks to the location and you can only wonder what became of the man. It might well make the news.

Man lying down on the tram tracks

Man doing sit-ups in front of a tram on its tracks

Maybe, sometimes we just need that license to be crazy and constitute both a nuisance and inconvenience to others as a test of what we might be capable of. Then the other part of the story we may never know of is what the consequence of that moment of madness has wrought. Then, in the scheme of things, Manchester is coming back to life with all its idiosyncrasies. Our streets, our treats.   

Coronavirus streets in Manchester - XXVIII

Life in the city

The city is still in slumber or just being aroused for the day when I go out for my walks in the morning. Apart from delivery lorries parked in loading bays to stock the shops I pass by, there isn’t much activity to see. That suits me as the absence of people and crowds means I do not have to don a face mask for the most part of my walk.

Brian recognises that soon after work, I do need a nap before I decide what else to do in the late evening. He has somehow urged me to go out probably for another long evening walk, which might be helpful to tire me out of the throes of insomnia, but there was much else to see especially after the easing of the lockdown measures in England.

Lights, chairs and tables

Out of my door and up the street, there was Canal Street, the gay village, all lit up and busy, chairs and tables on the pedestrianised street, I cannot account for whether there was adequate social distancing, the city was indeed abuzz. The back streets for which new licenses were granted were no more thoroughfare to vehicular traffic but now bustling aisles and pavements of alfresco dining.

Further on, some premises and businesses had died Covid-19 deaths, they were not open, the doors shuttered in the finality of regret that they could not endure the economic strains of the pandemic, a club that caters for patrons absent of class, style, or manner had followed that tale of woe for which with difficulty I mustered a bit of sympathy.

Gems make affordable

Then Primark, much as I do shop at Fortnum & Mason that is in the same Wittington Investments Limited conglomerate was having a late closing time. I will not buy a shirt or a suit there, but there are gems in the store at affordable prices.

A good woollen jumper and sexy track bottoms along with a few handy accessories, it was busy enough with people who wore their masks on their chins probably due to the protuberances on their faces being too big to be concealed by the healthy requirement of a mask. Did I hear they are called noses too?

Thinking of Brian, we can share trousers, his waist slightly thinner than mine, but we have the same leg length, or just about. He is taller than I am. Jackets, however, we can’t as my chest is bigger, we have to give or take 3 to 4 inches, he risks looking like a scarecrow in my jacket, though what a laugh that would excite. I hope the life that has returned to Manchester is not the precursor for another lengthy shutdown.