On the wall next to my computer, I have three framed printouts of blog entries. They each commemorate events which mean the most to me, and which I think about every day: One records the 2012 Paralympic Closing Ceremony, and the incredible evening when Lyn played alongside the Paraorchestra before the entire world. The second is about the amazing night in 2014 when Monty Python, the greatest comedy troupe to ever exist, reunited virtually on my doorstep and I was able to watch them live. And the third framed entry, of course, is about meeting Sir Patrick Stewart, also in 2014: about going to the Excel Centre with Lyn and Paul; being amazed at the huge Star Trek exhibition; about getting to meet the man I had written so much about in my MA thesis, telling him about my work, shaking his hand, and hearing him congratulate me on my “outstanding achievement.”

There is something about all three of these memories which can get me through the darkest of times: merely remembering that they in fact happened is enough to remind me just how incredible life can get, and that the potential for awesomeness is absolutely infinite. And yet, paradoxically, that infinity seems to have now been brought to an end. Before a couple of days ago, I used to enjoy telling myself that there was a chance, however faint, that I could one day meet Sir Patrick again. I used to reflect to myself that, while it was hypothetically possible that London could host the Olympic games again in my lifetime, the chances of somehow getting to attend one of it’s great ceremonies like I did fourteen years ago are so tiny it is absurd. The same obviously goes for another Monty Python reunion: those great men are obviously getting on and gradually thinning out. Sadly, I think it’s safe to rule out any more epic comebacks. And if they did, it probably wouldn’t be up at the O2 Arena again, so I wouldn’t be able to just trundle along the Thames in search of tickets. That is what made these memories so precious to me – I know how monumentally fortunate I am to have them.

Thus, I used to tell myself that of all three events, there was a chance that another Star Trek exhibition could be held at the excel centre, so that I might – just might – meet Sir Patrick again. It is, after all, one of the biggest conference centres in Europe, the ideal space for such fan conventions. That thought used to lift me up and spur me on through the darkest days of the pandemic, Lyn’s death and everything else. If I could meet the man I derived such strength from once, perhaps I could meet him again.

We now know, however, that that isn’t going to happen: a day as incredible as that one in October 2014 can never come around again – and I write that with a devastating, absolute finality. That is what I meant when I wrote a couple of days ago that the days of awesomeness suddenly seem well and truly over. It’s not that there isn’t still light in the world or anything to hope for; but that memories such as the ones commemorated on my wall now seem more distant than ever. There will obviously always be new places to go to, shows to see, films to watch and people to meet. Every new dawn brings with it the potential for something awesome. Yet we must balance that against our sense of loss and regret at what might have been, as only then can we truly learn to cherish every moment. For as Captain Picard said, it will never come again.

I don’t think anyone in their right mind would deny the barbarity of slavery: the notion that one group of people has a right to rule over and force another group of people to work for them, based simply upon the colour of their skin or anything else, is simply repugnant. The thing is, slavery was ended two centuries ago, so the nagging issue I have now that there’s talk of apologies and reparations in the air is, why now? Why should the current generation be held accountable for the crimes and misdeeds of the generations which came before it? Why should the UK need to pay reparations to countries in the Caribbean at this precise moment, simply because they were previously home to enslaved people? I think I have said here before that I have a problem with the idea that trauma or grievance can somehow be inherited. And what’s stopping people in twenty or fifty years time making the same appeal again? Thus, as much as I know that this issue is a bit of a political minefield, I can’t help thinking the crimes of the past are being exploited by countries currently in need of money; and that people in the UK are now being asked to pay for crimes which we played no part in. Even if such reparations were more figurative than monitory, why should people today be made to feel guilty for crimes which we played no part in, apologising to people who were never themselves slaves?

Quite frankly it seems that the days of awesomeness are suddenly well and truly over, leaving nothing but a kind of absolute darkness. I wrote yesterday that I was devastated to hear that Patrick Stewart had passed away, but I feel that perhaps I should explain just how much he meant to me as an actor. Of course, many are now praising his acting ability, and he was indeed one of the true greats of both stage and screen. His ability to deliver a monologue, to emote, to make an audience feel what he felt, was beyond comparison. Perhaps that was what made Jean-Luc Picard at once so relatable and so noble.

In the third chapter of my MA thesis I looked at some length at my relationship with what I call the Ahab Scene, the scene in Star Trek First Contact where Picard quotes Moby Dick, and realises that continuing to fight the Borg is folly. Out of all of cinema, I honestly think this is the scene that means the most to me. For a moment I think I glimpse in Picard’s eyes all the anger and frustration I feel at the injustices of the world: I read all the rage and hate that I felt about the death of my school friends. In that scene Picard releases such emotions on my behalf, so that all I need to do when the weight of the world becomes too much is to go back and rewatch it. It was just a seven or eight minute scene which had reverberated with me far more than any other since I had first seen it, which was why actually meeting Sir Patrick and telling him about my work meant so much to me. Yet now, the man I have derived such strength from for so long is no longer with us, and a day as incredible as that one in 2014 can never happen again; leaving what feels like a dark, empty, absolute void in which the bleak injustices of what I know to be reality echo louder than ever.

He piled upon the whale’s white hump the sum of all the general rage and hate felt by his whole race from Adam down; and then, as if his chest had been a mortar, he burst his hot heart’s shell upon it.

Moby Dick, page 156

I really dislike writing laments so I don’t want to labour this, but the news of Patrick Stewart’s death has come at quite a blow. I had settled down to watch a film last night when I suddenly got a message from my friend/comrade Katie suggesting that I check the news. It came completely out of the blue and was quite a shock. Of course, I have written here many times about my love for Star Trek and especially my admiration of Jean-Luc Picard. Meeting Sir Patrick in 2014 will always be one of the highlights of my life, and is still something I think about practically every day. I grew up watching Star Trek The Next Generation on TV, and it has always acted as one of the guiding narratives of my life in terms of my sense of morality, justice and honour. The fact that this great actor, this great man, is no longer here is frankly devastating.

Farewell Captain Picard. You will be missed.

Having just got in from quite an interesting afternoon in itself trundling around The City and Barbican, I got home and happened upon this extremely interesting video from TfL. I instantly knew I’d need to link to it here, as it is about all the films which have been made on the tube network. Of course, I use the tube fairly often these days – or at least the accessible parts of it – but when you look at it, it’s incredibly iconic. It has been used in films ranging from Skyfall to Transformers. Canary Wharf station was even apparently used in a Star Wars film, doubling as the interior of the Death Star. What I found especially interesting, though, was how disused stations such as Aldwych are being used for historic films: those old stations are so evocative of a bygone London, it’s great to see them being made the most of, rather than just being forgotten about.

Mind you, one thing I did raise an eyebrow over was the fact that TfL actually has a dedicated ‘Film office’. Had anyone else heard of that? So much for sleek, cost-effective public bodies. Then again, maybe I should try to get in touch with them.

Following the enormously sad death of Walter Koenig yesterday, I’d like to just direct everyone to this powerful, heartfelt tribute to him be Sean Ferrick. While I certainly think of myself as a Trekkie, I have never seriously sat down and watched the episodes of the original series of Star Trek, so I don’t feel I know it as well as The Next Generation or Deep Space Nine. Nonetheless, thanks largely to the films, Trek created a set of characters which I still have tremendous affection for. They showed us what was possible, and taught us to hope for a brighter, more collaborative future for humanity exploring the stars. Sadly, we have now reached the point in time when they are taking their leave from us, one by one. Walter, like his shipmates, will be missed.

This morning, having had to suffer the grotesque spectacle of Nigel Farage spouting bullshit on the breakfast news, I think I’m just going to state the blindingly obvious: he’s scared. Now that Andy Burnham has started to speak openly about our relationship with the EU and the possibility of another referendum, the xenophobic p’tahk is petrified of putting the question to the people again. Farage knows full well that we can see the damage brexit has done; he knows that only a complete idiot would vote to stay outside the EU. Such a vote would both end his career and render him a laughing stock, so he’s shit scared of having it. Thus for him to come on national TV this morning and accuse Burnham of somehow being dishonest for re-opening the debate over Brexit really shows us what a duplicitous little weasel Farage is: the general election he was speaking of as some sort of alternative wouldn’t settle the issue, and would serve no-one but himself. That should be obvious to anyone who understands anything about politics, quite frankly; but given the damage he did to the country a decade ago and in the ten years since, that this vile charlatan still has the audacity to appear on national television and try to deceive us further still really is an insult to us all.

Probably the best place I’ll be able to direct everyone today is to this ARTE documentary on life inside MAGA and the shocking political extremism which has now taken hold of America. While you can of course point out that it has it’s own political agenda to pursue, what this film reveals is nonetheless utterly chilling: an extreme political cult which it is no longer hyperbolic to call fascist. We are watching such reports from America more and more though: a far right despotism seems to have taken hold of the working class there, bringing about a kind of cult of personality which surely can only recall the darkest episodes of human history. Who knows where this might lead, and you still have to hope that there are still enough intelligent people there to put the breaks on before it’s too late. But if documentaries like this are anything to go by, I honestly think we should all be very, very worried.

It occurred to me recently that, even after almost seventeen years living in the metropolis, I still view London largely through the eyes of a newcomer. I managed to go out today after a couple of days stuck at home due to the weather. It was just one of my regular trundles around Canary Wharf and the Olympic Park. The thing is, whenever I head to such places, I am invariably stuck with awe. Both areas are sites of sleek, modern shopping centres which I can cruise around in my powerchair with ease. They are connected by a state of the art public transport system which I still derive great pleasure from using. The truth is, there is still something about this place, it’s infrastructure, architecture and history, which I still find incredible.

I find myself wondering why. I have now been living in the borough of Greenwich for nearly seventeen years: ten in Charlton, seven in Eltham. The city around me still somehow seems new and exciting to me. Had I been born here though, would I feel the same? If I had lived in London all my life, would it still be so captivating? Is it simply because I came from somewhere where such things did not exist – where public transport is still largely inaccessible and you rarely come across a building taller than four stories – the reason why I find a metropolis where they do so incredible? Am I still so enamoured simply because I once did not live here? Heading out on my daily trundles, in a strange way I almost still feel the wonder and curiosity of a tourist. As familiar as these streets, buildings and busses now are, might I still be looking at them through the naive eyes of a newcomer? And might that taint my impression of it, hiding underlying truths which might be clearer to native Londoners from me?

I just watched the BBC evening news bulletin, and suddenly really think I need to point something out. The country is about to face the worst storm we’ve seen in months, possibly years – there could even be a serious threat to life. You would presume that any responsible national news broadcaster would have that as it’s lead story, at the top of the bulletin. But, bewilderingly, no! First the country had to hear about Meghan Markle’s dad being investigated by the MET police, as if this ‘royal news’ was somehow more important. When I saw that I was utterly aghast. Surely we have a major problem in this country if we are more concerned about this idiotic royal soap opera than we are about an imminent natural catastrophe!

As both someone who is still strangely interested in the Olympic games as arguably the world’s biggest cultural event, and as a man who was born and brought up in Cheshire, I must admit to finding this news oddly exciting. “A £7m fund to explore how the Olympics could be brought to northern England will be announced in John Healey’s first Budget on Wednesday, the BBC has learned.” Having been fortunate enough to be living here in London in 2012, I think that is great, great news. I still remember what the metropolis felt like and the almost palpable sense of optimism in the air. If there is even the possibility of doing something similar in the north of the UK, then surely that is to be welcomed. Of course, it hasn’t been revealed what this ‘northern Olympics’ would look like, and exactly which cities and towns would be involved; but you can rest assured this is an embryonic possibility I’ll be keeping an eye on. There is a very long way to go and it could still come to nothing, but this might – just might – be the beginning of something awesome.

I just finished catching up with this ITV documentary exposing Reform as the xenophobic vermin they are. At about ninety minutes, it’s fairly long and involved, but I would entreat anyone even remotely concerned with UK politics to give it a watch. Mostly composed of undercover footage, it gives us an idea of just how sickening and abhorrent the views of the members of this party really are. I can’t deny being enraged by much of the xenophobic bullshit they are caught spouting. They can try to deny being racist all they like, but the fact remains there can be no room for the sort of disgusting regressive idiocy exposed here in any enlightened political discourse. Views like the ones exposed here will hold any modern society back, and I think we should surely be thanking ITV for showing us the truth of this putrid party. Naturally, there will be accusations of selective editing, and people will say we were only shown what the film makers wanted us to see; but the fact remains we surely should not have bigots like the ones displayed here, spouting puerile, sickening, xenophobic crap then claiming a kind of victimhood when they’re called out on it, anywhere near our political system. If anything, we should surely pity these people for being so unenlightened and misinformed; but it’s hard not to think they are an embarrassment to human civilisation in it’s entirety.

It seems that I have been happily corrected. Yesterday I wrote that I didn’t think there were any books to accompany Michael Palin’s new Channel Five programmes. To be honest that disappointed me slightly, as I feel the books add a certain depth and background to Palin’s travelogues. I was trundling through Lewisham a bit earlier though, and thought I’d pop into Waterstones, and to my surprise came across his book covering his journey to the Philippines. I didn’t buy it as I thought I had better pop home to make absolutely sure that it somehow wasn’t already on my bookshelf; but given that the book has only just been published, I think I’ll be heading back there soon to pick up a copy. Frankly, it’s good to see this televisual highlight staying up to form.

My jaw quite literally hit the floor when I news of the car written about here. I’ve always been a fan of new tech, but can’t help thinking things are now getting silly. “A new version of Tesla’s Roadster electric sports car, equipped with thrusters which apparently allow it to hover and turn in mid-air, has been unveiled in Texas.” The sight of the car quite literally jumping from the ground was enough to kick-start my day. It’s just a demonstration model of course, and probably won’t be road legal, although I can’t help wondering whether they plan to make a powerchair version.

Quite some time ago, I began to think about what I called the Paradox of Liberalism: the contradiction at the core of liberal/progressive philosophy which says one must be open to and tolerant of all views and perspectives, apart from the perspectives which say you cannot tolerate any views or lifestyles apart from your own. Of course, it still seems to me that this is still a valid problem for those who call ourselves liberals – how can one tolerate intolerance, or accept bigotry as a valid point of view like any other? The thing is, yesterday I came across something which is far more paradoxical, hypocritical, and even insidious for those currently in the opposite camp.

I was out and about as usual, trundling around the estates near Plumstead. It’s a fairly affluent area which I hadn’t really explored. Many of the roads were named after great writers like Chaucer and Keats. All of a sudden I came across something which really got me going: a well maintained, semi-detached house flying a Reform flag in the front garden. That in itself would make me want to vomit, but what I found truly objectionable was the fact that there were also several Help For Heroes banners and silhouettes in the garden too. It was quite clear that this was the home of someone who thought of themself as a patriot, but had confused, like so many other fools are currently doing, extreme right wing politics for patriotism.

What I find provocative is the fact that the ‘heroes’ and veterans who this person was obviously demanding we support all either died or risked their lives resisting the very political forces whoever was flying this flag also advocated. The Second World War was fought against people who espoused the very grotesque nationalist notions Reform now promote. Indeed, the EU was created specifically to ensure Europe never lapses into such brutality again. By flying this flag, this person was insulting every one of the heroes they claimed to support; that they had the gall to obviously be so proud and vocal about it made it even worse. It was a contradiction and juxtaposition which I frankly found truly vile when I came across it on my trundle yesterday; yet it is clear evidence of the sickening delusion at the heart of current right wing, reactionary politics. Liberalism may have it’s paradoxes, but they are nothing compared to such perverse self-deception: you can’t claim to support veterans while advocating the very politics they were fighting to resist.

I’m extremely glad to hear that our politicians are getting real about Brexit. In the news yesterday evening, we heard that ‘Andy Burnham has said it is “inconceivable” to think that Russia did not try to interfere in the 2016 EU referendum’, adding that it was clear that there had been interference from Moscow. Of course, that is more or less a statement of the blindingly obvious: anyone who knows anything about the crime of 2016 knows that it was all a ploy by Vladimir Putin to weaken the European Union. What has really wound me up last night, however, is the fact that Nigel Farage has the barefaced audacity to call Burnham a liar in response. This is a man who, backed by his Russian handlers, knowingly mislead the country into voting to leave our nearest, biggest market. The consequences of such idiocy are now becoming clearer by the day, yet p’tahks like Farage still have the nerve to defend what they did. I’m just glad we finally have a PM who is unafraid to get real about Brexit, so the crime of 2016 might just be undone before it’s too late.

This will probably be a bit of a lament (or moan) but I’ve been reflecting quite a bit recently on the fact that, since moving to Eltham six years ago, for some reason I don’t seem to have made many friends. When I was living back in Charlton there were various people who I used to see and interact with quite regularly, such as at the park, who I counted as mates. These says, though, I have no real regular acquaintances. Of course, I count my three personal assistants, John, Dom and Artur, as firm friends – if not almost brothers – but apart from them and the guys I keep in touch with online, I have no real frequent mates. I daresay the pandemic made quite an impact on this situation, and things have never really recovered. Well, there’s obviously only one thing for it: time to make an effort to restore my friend count.

I just came across this quite long but interesting PBS documentary on the German-American Bund, a fascist movement in America in the 1930s. Of course, it rose in large part out of the aftermath of the First World War, Jim Crow Laws, the great depression and so on, and the historians speaking in the film go to some length to emphasise that it was very much a minority movement. They also stress how much opposition there was to it. Yet to be honest, in the light of what is currently happening in the US, I can’t help thinking that this dark chapter of American history is suddenly becoming very salient, and that the Bund could well have been more popular than these historians will be comfortable with. In the film we see pictures of huge parades with people waving swastikas alongside American flags, and rallies in Maddison Square Garden. As much as mainstream liberal society may want to deny it, there always seems to have been a dark, racist or xenophobic undercurrent in American culture, stretching back to their civil war and beyond, which is sadly currently enjoying a resurgence.

Like most people I suppose, I grew up with American culture: watching American films, cartoons and TV programmes. I suppose I have always had an affinity with our friends across the Atlantic. However, I take no pleasure whatsoever in saying that that respect has now been torn to shreds, and I frankly view America and Americans as utter embarrassments to humanity. I know how reactionary that might sound, but this news this morning has put the country far, far beyond the pale. Capital punishment is barbaric enough, and the news of the failed execution of Christa Pike earlier this week was already absolutely sickening; but any nation which would televise an execution can only be regarded as little more than a cesspit. Obviously, my disdain for Yankland had been growing since the re-election of Trump, and I had been becoming less and less comfortable with the news coming from there; but I fear this morning’s news drops them over the precipice into the swamp of outright fascism.

I know how reactionary this might sound; I also know that not all americans support their current government, or advocate vile things like this. Yet as it stands as a nation, the USA can no longer be respected and can only be seen as a fascistic cesspool which deserves little more than our collective disgust. Far from being the greatest nation on earth, it ought to be viewed, for the time being at least, as little more than a self-important backwater which should never have been allowed to rise to the prominence it now enjoys. Any nation which would make such a spectacle of death has no claim to be civilised let alone great, and for all it’s cultural ubiquity now deserves only our revulsion. Of course, as a country it may one day redeem itself, and I profoundly hope it does; but the news we received this morning absolutely dashes any standing the United States ever enjoyed. Any culture or society which could even contemplate something so abhorrent surely deserves nothing but our collective disdain and revulsion.

Here’s quite a weird realisation: every day I go out as usual, exploring London, hopping on and off buses. I’m now quite used to it. At certain times of day though, children also ride the bus, obviously on their way to or from school. The thought I currently can’t get out of my head, however, is that those kids would have been born after I moved down to London in 2010. Most are obviously now quite able and independent young people, yet the realisation that I’ve been living in this great metropolis for longer than they have been alive is one I must admit to finding rather astonishing. I still remember when this city felt new and alien to me, but I’m now riding public transport alongside kids born after I moved here. It certainly puts things into a new perspective, I must say.

If there is one thing I can’t stand it’s littering. My parents always taught me and my brothers that rubbish should always be put in the bin, so I find the sight of people dropping litter utterly repugnant. I was on a bus earlier today: I was on my way home from my usual trundle, and the bus was becoming more and more crowded as it approached the centre of town. Sat in the wheelchair spot but facing towards the front of the bus, a man was sat in the chair almost opposite me. He carried a cane and wore quite an unusual bowler hat. I had to watch as he scoffed quite a large bag of crisps. That in itself was rather unedifying, but I didn’t say anything. However, what made me instantly furious and pushed me over the edge was the sight of him scrunching the empty crisp packet into a ball and stuffing it down the side of the bus seat. I don’t want to sound like a puritan or goody two-shoes, but it seemed so disrespectful that I couldn’t help shouting at him. There are bins everywhere in this city; it just takes a little care and respect to keep it clean. Needless to say the exchange didn’t end well: he obviously didn’t understand what I was saying, and I should probably have just kept myself to myself. Yet I suppose I’ve now grown so fond of London and its transport system that the sight of people treating it so disrespectfully really does boil my blood. But then, given that there is so little we can do to get such slobs to take more care of their surroundings, I suppose the most I can do is record the episode here.

I don’t have anything to add to this, other than that I couldn’t agree more.

It’s becoming more and more obvious that this county’s only logical option is to undo the crime of 2016. As the blatant damage of Brexit becomes clearer and clearer, the movement to rejoin is only going to get louder and louder.

I honestly think I may have a new favourite film this evening, or at least I urgently want to watch again. John suggested going to watch Digger this afternoon. To be honest I hadn’t heard of it, so I was torn between that and going on my usual trundle, but frankly it came as a reminder of just how intriguing an artform film can be. I know I shouldn’t spoil anything or give anything away, but Digger is the kind of film which knows what it is: it knows it is a work of fiction and admits it. I would call it very rhyzomic in the way it reflected in upon it’s own status as a film, somehow simultaneously breaking the fourth wall, admitting it’s own status, yet also maintaining it’s fiction. I couldn’t help detecting distinct whiffs of Monty Python or Terry Gilliam, quite. frankly.

Having said that, it’s also the kind of film which it is hard to say what it is about, or whether it should be viewed as a comedy or taken deadly seriously. It can be seen as overt political satire and theatrical drama in equal measure. There were also more film references than I could shake a stick at, including a very Bondian white cat. I left the cinema absolutely dying to do some background reading. Just when I was beginning to worry about the quality of cinema these days, I’m treated to a doozy like this.

It’s a bit of a long watch, but probably the best place I could direct everyone today is to this Newsnight interview with Ian Hislop. Many are saying that we live in increasingly troubled, fractured times, and as guys like Hislop are often first to point out, the only real remedy to such division is humour. To that end, I was glad to see the return of Have I Got News For You to TV last night. As The news we receive becomes more and more absurd with every bulletin, such satire obviously acts as a sort of release valve, giving us all permission to laugh at the sheer insanity of what is happening. We probably have a joint habit of treating politics and current affairs with the utmost reverence and seriousness, and we forget that, at the end of the day, it boils down to a bunch of over-privileged twits talking rubbish about things they barely understand.

I’m finding it more and more annoying that kids are now just grunting at me when I’m pass them in the streets: they grunt or make weird noises at me, their implication being that I have some kind of learning disability. It happened again this morning. I know that I should just ignore it, but it feels so derogatory and disrespectful, as though they think they are being clever in forcing a label onto me that I don’t necessarily want. The thing is, if they just took a few minutes to stop and talk to me, they would probably find that I’m not too different from them. But they never do, so all I can do is put up with them grunting at me in the street.

Something very strange is clearly happening with regard to the number of disabled people around. I just got back from a trip into central London, and the number of people who I saw using powerchairs, wheelchairs or wearing sunflower lanyards was far higher than it was ten of even just five years ago. Back then, it was rather rare for me to come across just one fellow powerchair user, but it now happens every time I go out. I must have seen at least four or five fellow powerchair users today. I can’t help wondering why. Could I be imagining it? Is it just occurring here in London? Is my perception biased because I live in a large urban area, or is this rise happening elsewhere too? Part of me thought I was just being bitter and cynical when I started speculating about what I called cultural intrusion, and I told myself that if more people were identifying as disabled for whatever reason, I had no cause to be upset about it. But I’m becoming more and more certain this rise in disability rates is real, possibly caused in large part by the pandemic, and that I probably need to start looking into it properly. As easy as it is to dismiss it as a kind of sociopolitical bandwagon jumping, it’s becoming apparent that something more complex is now happening which is probably worth taking the time to explore. As I wrote with regard to autism a few days ago, the definition of such conditions seems to be becoming wider. Perhaps the same is happening with our perception of what constitutes ‘a disability’.

I know this is going to seem rather random and out of the blue, but I’ve recently become interested in the fact that Los Angeles is now trying to re establish its river. It stems from my interest in the Olympic Games, and how different cities use them as occasions to present themselves to the world. LA is now going to host the games in 2028 of course, but they are now apparently trying to breathe new life back into their river, which has been largely concreted over since the 1930s. What pricks my attention is how it might change the character of the city. The river appears in films like The Terminator, but it isn’t something which immediately comes to mind when you think about Los Angeles, and looks rather forgotten and drab from the pictures. I’ve written here before about how fond I am of London’s waterways, so I can’t help wondering how Los Angeles might change in light of this. Flowing water seems to give a new dimension to lived in areas, so I wonder whether they could be trying to break the city free of its image in popular culture as a concrete sprawl ready to host the world in two years time. Perhaps more to the point, you’ll recall how their respective rivers were large features of both the London and Paris olympic opening ceremonies, so I’d be very curious to see whether the Angelenos take up that thread.

Something happened a few minutes ago which made me feel very out of date. My PA Dom has an Ipad, and he was using an AI function on it to ask it about coffee. He was just kidding around, but what made my jaw literally drop was the way in which Dom was able to have quite a natural conversation with it: The machine seemed to be talking back to him, thinking, hesitating, considering it’s answers, switching between Polish and English on request.

I must admit to being rather behind the times on this. AI isn’t something I use much. I tap the occasional question into Google, but because I don’t speak clearly, I have never had the kind of conversation with my Ipad which Dom seemed to be enjoying. It thus amazed me how responsive it was, and how lifelike – you could have thought it was a real person talking back to my friend. Just how advanced are these systems becoming? As enthusiastic for new technology as I usually am, what I saw earlier was so astonishing that it made me feel rather behind the times. Such tech seems to be primarily controlled with your voice, so I can’t help feeling somewhat left behind.

Just to update this entry from last Sunday about taking up the bus wheelchair space, I ought to report that something rather similar happened today too. I was up at North Greenwich after quite a long trundle. It was getting cloudy and I was getting eager to go home for lunch. If you don’t know, at North Greenwich there is a large bus station where all the local bus routes converge. It’s also by the O2. It was really busy there today because there was a tennis tournament on.

I got to the right stop for my bus , and found there was not only a lady pushing a pram there, but also a fairly young man wearing a disabled person lanyard and pushing a walking frame. To be honest I assumed it would not be a problem: he could fold his walker up, sit on a bus seat and the driver could let all three of us on. However, rather to my horror and shame, after he had let me on in my powerchair, the bus driver shut the back door and retracted his wheelchair ramp. The, after letting the lady on with her pram through the front door, he refused to let the guy with the walker on because I was in the wheelchair space. I didn’t say anything, but it immediately struck me as blatantly unfair – the dude had been there before me. I thought I’d better blog about it because, with so many more people using wheelchairs and mobility aids these days, I suspect things like this are going to become more and more of a problem.