Dusty Wentworth

I woke to the sound of the alarm. Through my half-closed eyes I could just about make out 06:30 glowing on the clock. Bloody rude, I thought — it’s the school holidays! But reality bites: these days, it can take me as long to get from bed into my wheelchair as it once took me to shower, dress, and be ready to leave the house. I need a head start on life now. Breakfast was the usual 14 tablets washed down with fresh coffee. Then another coffee. And another. Look, one helps me wake up and the other is just because I love coffee, alright? Don’t judge me. By 8am the car was loaded: wheelchair, pushchair, cool bags, three children, and two emotionally drained adults just trying to survive the summer holidays. Destination: Africa Alive in Kessingland, Suffolk. Now, as a Norfolk lad, any foray into Suffolk has to be treated as a covert operation. Football fans will understand — it’s not just about Norwich City (the mighty Canaries) versus Ipswich Town (the Tractor Boys). The rival...

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 op...