It’s officially become both springtime and British Summer Time since we last spoke, and though everyone but the most miserable soul will be pleased with this development – the changing of the seasons being one of the most ordinary yet miraculous recurring events imaginable – the perking up of the climate has a dash of something bittersweet to it for those of us who are disabled. Especially for those of us to whom it happened recently, and all at once.

I’ve lived in a seaside city for the past 30 years, and I love it. Though not the outdoorsy type – to put it mildly – as soon as the sun made an appearance I could be found in the sea, on the shingle or, let’s be honest, more likely at a lovely pavement cafe table feeling the sea-breeze and appreciating how lucky I was to be here on a steaming hot day rather than sweating cobs in “That London”.

I was taken in for an emergency spinal operation the week before Christmas 2024, and was relatively fortunate to be in rehabilitation throughout the cold weather: free heating, Wi-Fi and adult nappies galore! I was sprung on 1 May 2025 and I remember the extreme glee I felt coming back to my lovely Art Deco flat near Hove seafront – maybe not quite so exquisite now the toilet door had been removed (a pervert’s paradise) and with both a hospital bed and a plastic bath-chair cluttering up my previously minimalist jewel-box of an apartment.

But I was so pleased to be home, away from the clamorous ward (“Eat more prunes!” a ward-mate would repeatedly shriek while I hung helplessly hoisted over a commode), that these were easily integrated. I powered through that........

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