Blog Title: Bowling Balls, Banter & a Bit of Perspective: A Day Out with the Family By Dusty Wentworth

It was the sunshine streaming through a small gap in the curtains that woke me—an ordinary beginning to what would become an extraordinary day. For a brief moment, as my eyes adjusted to the light, everything seemed… normal. Then I saw my wheelchair at the side of the bed and reality reasserted itself with the subtlety of a sledgehammer. It’s in that moment every morning that I have a choice: do I board the Rumination Express, bound for despair and self-pity? Or do I choose to live, to fight, and to grab hold of the day with both hands—dodgy nerves and all?

As usual, the day began with a 14-tablet cocktail, washed down with a strong coffee. Over breakfast, decisions had to be made. The "Family Olympics" had been declared—my niece and her boyfriend had challenged us to ten-pin bowling, arcade games, and pool. Today was the day of reckoning.

First task: choosing the right set of wheels. With my custom active-user chair still in production for another two weeks, I opted for my sleek and manoeuvrable Volar 10—aka Thunderbird One. Chair loaded, kids wrangled, and we were off to Namco Norwich, where the fun and games were to begin.

Once there, drinks were ordered, names programmed into the lane, and the family tournament commenced. And let me tell you, my kids bowl like pros. Clearly, they’d been honing their skills while I was stuck in hospital. Even little Hallie, at just two years old, demanded high fives like a pint-sized diva with glitter in her veins.

Then came my moment. Nerves kicking in. This was my first time bowling in a wheelchair, and I could feel the eyes on me—some curious, some confused. Ball in my lap, I wheeled to the lane, locked the brakes, took a deep breath, and rolled the ball. No strike, but no disaster either. On the second throw, I cleared the remaining pins. Victory? Maybe not. But it felt like one.

With each round, the anxiety loosened its grip. The support of my family, the kids cheering me on, the jokes flying between my wife, Erin and Lewis—it helped. These were my people, and this was my space, no matter the chair beneath me.

Bowling wrapped up with my niece Erin taking the win, but the real prize was up next—pool. Lewis and I broke away for some “guy time” at the table while the others went full arcade warrior. No talk of disability. No sidelong glances. Just banter, missed shots, and the kind of low-stakes competition that does wonders for a bloke’s soul. This was therapy for masculinity—not the clinical kind, but the real, unspoken, messy kind. Lads laughing, teasing, decompressing. It’s not about pool or motorbikes or golf—though those help—it’s about shared moments in a judgement-free zone.

Lewis and I? Chalk and cheese. I’m a crusty old Army vet; he trades Pokémon cards for a living. I’ve got daughters older than him, and yet here we are—sharing jokes and parenting duties like old mates. Masculinity, I’ve learnt, isn’t rigid. It’s a spectrum. And there’s gold to be found in the middle ground.

Reunited with the family, I invoked the ancient law of “winner stays on” at the air hockey table—and somehow, the old reflexes kicked in. Wheelchair or not, my misspent youth carried the day, and I was crowned Air Hockey Champion. Apparently, victory comes with a price—refreshments were my shout. Milkshakes, Fruit Shoots, bacon rolls and chips. The arcade was alive with flashing lights, the laughter of children, and the sweet scent of overcooked snack food.

As the day wound down, the smiles lingered. Hallie was asleep before we even left the car park, and I found myself quietly reflecting on the day’s meaning.

It’s never really about what you do. It’s about who you do it with. Time is the most valuable currency we have, and the people we spend it on determine whether it’s wasted or invested. Trust me—when you’ve lost over 14 years of your memory, the value of a shared laugh or a family outing becomes immeasurable.

So here’s your call to action: Don’t wait for the “right moment” to spend time with the ones who matter. Make the time. Make the memories. And remember—whether you're on two legs or four wheels, it’s not the limitations that define you, but what you do in spite of them. Go live. Go laugh. And for heaven’s sake, if you're challenged to air hockey—don’t underestimate the bloke in the chair.

#Dustywentworth