Today, being the lovely day it has been, I decided that I was not going to stay in alsager. This usually means catching the bus to either Crewe or hanley, and, frankly, neither of them appealed. Thanks to the DSA, more and more of the public transport system is becoming accessible (except in London, where that shithead boris intends to bring back the old route master busses). I decided to test if this was true.

I decided to go to Chester. I'd seen busses with Chester marked as their destination depart from Crewe bus station, and it seemed an appropriate distance for a daytrip, so I got the 20 to Crewe and then the 84 to Chester. The busses were all wonderfully accessible, and, despite having to ride backwards, I enjoyed the journey.

80 minutes later I was in Chester, feeling quite pleased with myself. First I got a map from tourist information (I'd only decided to go to Chester after leaving home) and then decided to head for the Jonses. They're my friends and I thought I might as well see if they were home. If they weren't, no harm done.

Charlottes family don't live too far from the city centre, but I nevertheless needed to ask directions two or three times. Everyone was very helpful. I found Mr. Jones in his garden, reading the paper. Only he and will were in. I'd only expected to stay about ten minutes, the purpose of the experiment being only to see if it was possible to get myself there,, but I stayed about an hour and a half. At one point, Mr. Jones asked if I'd like to stay the night. I was given a ham sandwich and a cup of tea, before Mr. Jones insisted we walked back to the bus stop together. They're such nice welcoming people: although I didn't want to intrude, their place was an obvious destination for my adventure.

The journey back went as smoothly as the journey out. I know this isn't anything special, really. Most folks my age have already been on gap years and the like. But to me, this was an adventure - one more step towards Timbuktu. And besides, it certainly beat staying at home playing on my computer.

tonight was the evening of the summer ball. Surprisingly, I chose not to go this year: it would not have been the same without my old friends from the third year, and I suspect I would have found myself missing them. We always went as a group, and I think me and charlotte were more or less joined at the hip last year. (should see her in the next two weeks,, and Emma not long after. Woohoo!)

I decided to go to the cinema with lee instead. I didn't want to be on campus this evening. We saw Iron Man, which isn't a bad flick at all. Pretty standard action thriller, but I enjoyed it, so I have had a good evening anyway. I think I've got something out of my system tonight: not parties, nor my eagerness to dress up, but I sort of think I've grown up slightly.

Well, its getting late. Good night everyone.

My thesis having reached a semi-finished yet awkward state, I decided yesterday afternoon to go over to the front field to watch some cricket. Every Wednesday in the summer term they hold a match there, and yesterday MMU played Bolton. The sun was shining, the grass green. There is nothing finer.

It was a 90 over match, 45 each way; I hadn't spent time watching a cricket match since Sydney, so I was eager to take it seriously and follow the game from start to finish. In the event, I did pop home to check emails once or twice, so I missed the odd ball, and at 5 I needed to meet jen for tea, but I didn't do too badly. Cricket is the type of sport where you can do that, anyway, and I love it for it.

MMU batted first. We got about 270 for 6 off 45 overs. someone whose name escapes me topscored at 97. I always feel sorry in such cases.

Then we semi-skittled them, beating them 105 runs, or thereabouts. For a giant bear, bungle is pretty handy with the ball. For my part, I was just having fun, sitting in the shade of the hedges at the far side of the road. It was my father who instilled in me an intense love of this rather odd game, and yesterday brought back memories of Sydney Melbourne and Old Trafford. At one stage I even fancied I smelled Australia, but that could have simply been the coconut suntan lotion. Watching this sport being played puts me at ease with the world; it brings back happy memories; sitting there, yesterday afternoon, everything seemed right.

I have, in my recent writings here, been trying to work towards a greater understanding of disability and what it means to be disabled - that is to say, to fall under the category of 'person with a disability'. It seems to me that the area is extremely problematic, fraught with paradoxes and contradictions, which ultimately do not satisfy me. How, for example, can we be a subculture with such a flimsy central focus? We are, to my mind, a loose amalgam of people. I know we can only achieve our goals by sticking together, but wouldn't this have an automatic ostracisation effect? By establishing an us, don't we automatically establish a 'them', and wouldn't this contradict our goal of inclusion?

I have tried, in my own way, to scratch away at these problems, trying to uncover what they mean, and my place in the world. To my mind, no idea is sacred - I want to question everything. The day we stop doing so is the day fascism reigns. Thus I will continue to questioning 'our' nature. I feel, however, that I must do this from my own standpoint: while it is true that a particular failing of mine is my lack of evidence, I would prefer to work things out based on my own experiences of life and logic. In other areas, I understand the value of the quotation and the footnote (the bread and butter of academic writing), yet with his I need to work it out for myself. The very fact that I have c.p gives me just as much right to talk on the subject as anyone else. Mind you, it wouldn't hurt to go pester Mary the librarian some more...

During a spate of procrastination yesterday, I came across reference to a book called Gandhi Behind the Mask of Divinity written by US Army Colonel G. B. Singh, which purports to expose Gandhi as a racist. While some have called the book ''deeply disturbing'' in its eagerness to sling mud, it reminds us that no idea is above criticism, not even the mahatma, and especially not disability philosophy.

The stuff I've recently written here has been causing arguments. frankly I'm brassed off at being told I'm not allowed to question stuff - debate, it would seem, is dead. anyway, to lighten the mood, I'll send you here. it is, lets say, right up my street