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Lo! and it came to pass, in the rain of North West London, that a love was born unto me for the festival of Christmas, that once I did dread!

Yea verily, the holly spirit has entered me, banishing forever the imp of ‘bah humbug’.  I have seen the lights!

Yes, even as Camden’s elves prepare to festoon Hampstead High Street with dancing festive LEDs and retailers urge us to part with our hard-earned cash I feel the ghost of Christmas Cynicism Past chased away by glad tidings of great joy.

And what, you may ask, has brought about this uncharacteristic reassessment of a religious festival that has been commercialised to obscene excess?

How can I bring myself to rejoice at the prospect of a Christmas goose force-fed by consumerism and fattened to the point of liver damage?

Heaven forefend that I might have grown fluffy in my old age and begun to believe that what’s sauce for the goose shall be sauce for the gander.  Nah – it’s because I’ve taken a gander at the source of our Yuletide tradition and I’ve had an epiphany.

At this darkest time of the year, everyone needs a bit of seasonal cheer in their stocking.  But if neither religion nor retail therapy does it for you, you can end up  Scrooged.  Fortunately I’ve found it’s in the gift of Hampstead Heath.

And it all started with a log…

But before I explain, and since we are in Hampstead, Dr Freud, perhaps it’s time to revisit my childhood to understand my issues with Christmas.

I think it’s entangled with my Hungarian roots.  My Sussex classmates celebrated sumptuous Christmases on the 25th December while my family exchanged modest, gifts on the evening of the 24th.  Then it was early to bed and early to rise for a journey of biblical proportions across several counties to gather with those members of the family who had survived the War and settled in the UK.

Though all the chairs were occupied there always seemed to be gaps and no one abover a certain age spoke about their childhood Christmases.

When my Mum died that sense of absence amid the presents drew closer still, dulling the glitter of the tinsel.

But Christmas is a celebration of nativity. And, with the advent of my own children not only did I get the opportunity to play with Lego again but I also found myself passing on some family traditions; the first of which was decorating a Yule-log.

Now, before you get visions of chocolate and cream I must explain that this is the wooden version, bedecked with holly and ivy, glitter and tinsel; gathered with misted breath and mittened hands; then daubed with Copydex glue and finished with a candle that, once lit, sent hibernating beetles scuttling across the kitchen table.

It’s something my siblings and I enjoyed doing with Mum when we were little.  And passing it on to a new generation brings a part of her back.

That first log, taken from the bough of a fallen tree near Kenwood on a cold and frosty morning, helped me come to terms with Christmas.  It reminded me that weathering the bleak midwinter warrants a celebration and, whatever justifications have accreted to that need, it remains a blend of thanksgiving, self-indulgence and coming together, even if nowadays our survival is, generally, more assured.

So, while others shop till they drop under the Christmas lights, munch mince pies, or enjoy nine lessons and carols in one of Hampstead’s beautiful churches, I shall be rejoicing in the elemental glories of the Heath’s ponds and hillsides.

Of course not all traditions are worth preserving.  So instead of traipsing halfway across England on the 25th December I shall follow my new custom and join the festivities at The Highgate Men’s Pond for the Christmas Day swim.

There’s no better way to be reminded of the frisson of life immersed in deep mid-winter than sharing the warmth of others who call this area home?

Then I shall return to my family to dive into a Christmas lunch of Community Market produce, before opening a few presents and remembering the absents.  It’s good to be a Heathen on holly-day.

Merry Yuletide everyone!

What do blind people have to do to be seen?

In reporting the recent trial of a man who carried out an acid attack the media focused exclusively on the disfiguring injuries suffered by victims.

Both TV and radio reports chose to focus on the life-changing scars inflicted on the young women caught up in this horrific, senseless attack.

Their stories were heartbreaking and as the father of two daughters in a city that is no stranger to acid attacks, I could only shudder and think, there but for the grace of god.

But something was niggling at the back of my mind, and set me scouring the newspaper reports.

Sure enough, my memory hadn’t been playing tricks on me.  I discovered that two of the victims of the attack had been blinded in one eye.  They had received permanent, irreversible sight loss.

And yet no TV report or radio bulletin carried this news.

While I in no way want to downplay the horrific damage, mental and physical, that these innocent victims sustained I do have to question why the media chose to focus on disfiguring injuries over those that are disabling.

Has our society become so fixated on visual perception that the worst possible crime is to despoil beauty and render it too painful or disturbing to look at?

By extension does that mean that the media cannot bear to feature stories in which vision is destroyed?

Let’s face it, blind people are almost absent from our TV screens. If they do appear it’s always in the same clichéd roles of stricken victim (usually female) or sonically superpowered hero (usually male).

It’s the same battle that ethnic minority and gender equality groups have fought so hard to win.  But campaigns for disability rights and recognition – especially for those with sight loss – have failed to achieve the same impact.

Nowadays it would be unthinkable for a white actor to black up for a role. And yet sighted actors are still employed to play the few blind roles in film and TV.

Some of us are trying to change this sorry state of affairs. In Fight for Sights new TV advertising campaign a group of us who are really blind invite viewers to ‘Look me in the eye and tell me that sight loss doesn’t matter.’

Let’s see whether the great British public can bear seeing blindness on TV or whether it’s as much of a turn off as the media seems to think.

Going away on holiday when you’re blind can be a mixed blessing.

Sure, it’s great to escape the daily grind of work and chores for a week or two; but I seldom find it relaxing.

At home I’m on familiar ground.  I know where everything is.  And if I want to go out, to the shops or the climbing wall, I can do so independently.

On holiday I’m always reliant on someone else. Whether it’s finding the coffee or working the microwave; or being escorted everywhere in case I get lost; my lack of independence is dis-spiriting.

Then there’s sightseeing!  I know, it goes with the exploring new territory part of a holiday.  And I don’t expect others to forego the pleasure on my account.  But the constant refrain of ‘ooh, look at this’ and ‘ah, isn’t that beautiful’ does get irritating when you can’t see the objects being ogled.

So I’ll often stay behind and listen to an audiobook instead.  Which is okay…except that all rest and no play makes me intolerable.  I need my daily dose of exercise.  Without it I go stir crazy.   So thank goodness for The Isle of Wight.

With its own association for the blind, the island takes accessibility seriously.  Which means there are plenty of activities to keep me busy.

Unfortunately climbing The Needles isn’t an option – at least not on my family holiday. The aim is to find something we can all enjoy doing together.

This year – our eighth – Kate, the kids and I went off the beaten track and explored the island by bike.  Thanks to a wonderful charity called Charlotte’s Tandems, we had free hire of a bicycle made for two.

And with Kate steering and me pedalling hard behind, the kids quickly discovered that their parents aren’t so decrepit after all.

A few days later we were riding the waves.  With me and an instructor in a two-man kayak and Kate and the kids in singles, we were all able to enjoy paddling at our own pace.

After all that fresh air and fun I was quite happy to stay behind and do my own thing when the others did go sightseeing.  And we all returned to London relaxed, refreshed and without feeling my blindness had been an issue at all.

So no prizes for guessing our holiday destination next year!

Sometimes it’s like I’m in a real-life game of Donkey Kong. Negotiating Hampstead’s pavements, assailed by a host of objects and obstacles – not all of them stationary – that seem designed to sap my energy levels.

Now, I know I’ve ranted about our cluttered pavements before!  The Parisian-style cafés that have co-opted the public right of way for their own retail space; the A-frames advertising everything from beer to bikini-waxes; and the mournful, monotonous accordion murderers.  They are all street trash but, for the most part, I’ve learned to live with them.

I’m not even going to vent more spleen on the school run.  Summer’s here and we can enjoy seven blissful weeks without toddler’s on ‘Razor’ scooters cutting a swathe down the pavement as they hurtle away from their handlers; and no four-wheel-drive Ego-carriers off-roading across the York-stone paving. Not today!

No, this afternoon, in-between rubbing arnica into a bruise the size of a kumquat on my shin and feeling the blood seep from cuts on my palms that I hope don’t require a tetanus jab, I am putting finger to keyboard because it’s a waste of time trying to contact those responsible for my injuries.  Thanks Camden!

It’s rubbish!  Strewn all over the pavements, every time I step out of my front door.

Since when did Hampstead become an extension of Regis Road Rubbish Dump!?  What century are we living in?!  The last time I saw this much crap all over the pavements was the late 1970s – when the country voted in Maggie Thatcher to clean up the mess.

Apparently it’s all due to cuts.  I’ll show them cuts…and bruises.  Lots of them, all over my body from all the recycling bins and bags of garden waste and household refuge that are littering our already cluttered pavements because – guess what Camden – your refuse collection programme is a mess.

I am a big fan of recycling.  I religiously sort it, wash it and put it in the right containers.  I also understand that the containers need to be larger now we are recycling more.  But 5-foot tall wheelie bins for homes that have virtually no outside space is not clever.  After years of witnessing how lazy people are about taking in their smaller (and stackable) green boxes, did it occur to no-one in Camden that large wheelie bins were even less likely to be brought indoors – and so, like herds of heavy plastic Daleks, were destined to be abandoned at awkward angles across pavements all over the borough?  I find they are particularly effective at fracturing ribs and collarbones because they are wider at the top than the base and so my white cane doesn’t always find them before my upper body does. Thanks Camden!

In the two-or-so years since these alien invaders took possession of our streets I’ve done my best to adapt.  I’ve slowed my pace right down, tried a guide dog and thought about buying a flame-thrower.  My fellow Hampstonians have taken to shouting out warnings and for the most part I’m down to a couple of BLTs (Bin Laceration Traumas) a week – I can handle it.

But just when I thought I could cope what did the Council of Cretins do?  Halve the number of collections to once every two weeks.  So now the bins are fuller and smellier and even less likely to be stored indoors.  The result is a proliferation of heavier, more bruising objects strewn all over the pavement – and a lot more fly-tipping, particularly in the roads near the High Street that are fortunate enough still to have weekly collections.  Thanks Camden!

At least non-recyclables and garden waste go into nice soft bags – you wouldn’t think they could do much damage.  Don’t you believe it!  I carry the scars to prove it.  This morning I was assaulted by a bag of tree cuttings, squatting in the middle of the pavement like a mini-palisade, in Willow Road.  Its partner in grime, a festering food recycling caddy was cunningly positioned to trip me a couple of feet ahead of the up-thrust spikes.  Fortunately I found them with my hands, not my throat. Thanks Camden!

Limping home through rubbish ripped from refuse bags by foxes and rats, who must be the only creatures in London to believe that we live in a time of plenty, I had a light-bulb moment…

I’ll give the idiots who came up with this rubbish scheme a blindfold and white cane each so they can try to navigate their way round Hampstead for a couple of hours.  Then let them tell me how workable they think their scheme is. Dare you!

I was going to finish there but have new injuries to report: a cut forehead and smarting eye.  I only nipped out for emergency medical supplies (more plasters and antiseptic cream); but in sidestepping a sack of broken crockery dumped next to a street bin, I was raked by an overhanging branch.

At least, I suppose, I’ve found the one area where there have been no Council cutbacks. Thanks Camden!

Hampstead truly is a wonderful place to live.  People round here really do look out for each other.  Since Ella and I separated I’ve lost count of the number of lovely local residents who have come up to me, patted me on the back, enquired after her well-being and offered their sympathy.  They all tell me how much I must be missing her.  I never knew so many people cared.  In London we get so used to being invisible; one more face in the ever-growing crowd.  But up here, with the lungs of the Heath to feed oxygen to our minds, it is different.

And that’s where Ella was in her element.  She was never happier than when she and I strode out onto The Heath and she could gamble ahead of me, glancing expectantly over her shoulder, willing me to chase her into the bushes and roll around with her in fox-shit.

But my dog days are over.  Ella has gone to stand at another man’s side and, I’m sorry to say, I really don’t miss her.  Clutching my white cane, I’m happier tapping my way through life alone and at my own speed.

Ella always was just a little too fast for me, a bit too eager to get to where we were going.

The final straw came when, with the prospect of running free of her harness ahead of her, she pulled me into East Heath Road and the path of a speeding van.    The bond of trust between us, never that tight, started to unravel and I knew I’d have to let her go.  After all, I can have my own accidents; I don’t need an over-enthusiastic guide dog to lead me into peril.

So where did it start to go wrong?

Maybe, Dr Freud, it was when I was three years old and the neighbours’ Alsatian jumped up and bit me on the face.  I still bear the scar, perhaps it’s deeper than I think.  And growing up in rural Sussex the only dogs I came across usually belonged to ramblers who let them run amok terrifying the horses, which hardly endeared them to me.

I confessed all this to the Guide Dog people who assured me that a guide dog is a working dog, not a pet.  Mollycoddling them confuses them.  However, guide dogs also tend to be rather needy, it’s what makes them form a such a close bond with their master.

And I guess that’s the root of the problem.  I don’t see myself as anyone’s master, or god.  I love companionship but on an equal footing.  One of the great joys of parenthood is watching my children develop into my equals.  Ella was and always will be a toddler with arrested development who looks to me for guidance and reassurance when that’s what I need from her.

And gosh was she needy.  As soon as I was out of her sight she’d bark and whine.  It was impossible to take her to yoga (although she was positively gifted at demonstrating the downward dog position).  And though she led me beautifully across the Heath to the Men’s Pond she hated me swimming.  Like The French Lieutenant’s Woman she’d stand at the end of the pier awaiting my return, and howl.  It got so painful I considered taking a taxi there instead!

Needy and greedy.  Always possessed of an eye to her stomach (she was a Labrador remember) Ella had seen us banished from several shops for sneaking food from the shelves.  Oh how she loved to chomp on a carrot or bite into a bag of sugar!

There were good times too of course.  But the only place we were truly happy together was The Wells.  She with a regular supply of gravy bones courtesy of the attentive staff and the prospect of her beloved Heath close by; me nursing a pint of Hackney Gold.  It was hardly the basis for a healthy relationship and  I had to limit our visits to days with an ‘S’ in them.

But before Tony Parsons or anyone accuses me of being a dog-denier, let me say that in the eight months Ella and I were together I finally learned to like dogs.  I miss being part of the wonderfully welcoming dog-owning community and hope they will not ostracise me for admitting that my arranged marriage wasn’t working.

Ella made me feel inadequate.  As a person with a disability it’s a demon that lurks close to the surface.  Like so many people who met Ella, I expected her to be a cross between Lassie and Google Maps.  She wasn’t. She was just a highly trained but fallible and slightly neurotic, dog who like me wanted more than was feasible from our relationship.

And so, last week, I phoned my guide dog instructor.  I told her that I felt lousy, that it was probably all my fault, but that, though I’d given it time, it really wasn’t working out between me and Ella.

Hearing her name Ella trotted over and laid her soft furry head on my lap, showing me those puppy-dog eyes.  They had no effect – I don’t think she ever understood that I can’t see.

They came in a van and took her away a couple of days later.

So when you see me please don’t ask me where she is or if I’m missing her.  I’m not.  Since making that call I have felt only relief.  It just wasn’t the right relationship for me and I’m happier to be out of it.

I hope Ella finds happiness with someone who can give her the attention and long walks she craves.  And that she learns to curb her enthusiasm so that she and they can live to enjoy years of frolicking on the Heath together.

I meanwhile have returned to do bruising battle with Hampstead’s street clutter. Armed with my trusty white cane I am wary but glad to have my independence back.

The words Annual General Meeting once bored dread into my heart.  But in the case of our resident’s association at least, they now fill me with anticipation.

Founded in 1984 The Gayton Residents Association (GRA) has an illustrious history.

It’s thanks to the GRA that Gayton Road (although alas not Gayton Crescent) has retained its Victorian lampposts; and due to the tireless efforts of a small bunch of GRA members those lampposts are adorned with hanging baskets of flowers throughout the summer.

And of course then there’s the legendary GRA Street Party – a festival with a history nearly as venerable as Glastonbury but with none of the mud!

So as you can see, we know how to party.  Like many other resident’s associations the GRA has an active social side and over the years we’ve gathered together at quiz nights and book groups, and made full use of local amenities like the Highgate bowls club, the skittles alley beneath The Freemasons, and even enjoyed a few nights sampling the food and drink on offer at Hampstead’s various hostelries.

But somehow our AGMs, despite the lovely venue provided by Burgh House, just didn’t generate the same enthusiasm…no matter how much white wine was on offer!

And then someone hit on the brilliant idea of including food on the menu and nights that were wearisome perked up no end.

That was about five years ago and membership, which had stagnated, has grown like fuzz on a Camembert, spreading to include parts of Willow Road, Well Road and Well Walk.

Fortunately we Gaytonians don’t have any crypto-Faragists or separatist Sturgeons to contend with and the trumperies that get built here tend to be basements, not walls.

That sense of community was ebulliently evident at last month’s AGM that, fittingly enough took place at The Hampstead Community Centre.

It’s somewhere we all take for granted I realised as I enjoyed a pre-prandial pint with my neighbours at the newly spruced-up King Willy. Next-door Victoria, who runs the Montadito Original Spanish Delicacies stall was preparing a feast for 40 in the Community Centre’s kitchen.  Using ingredients sourced only from Community Centre traders: cod from Hampstead Seafoods; chicken from Meat Naturally; fruit and veg supplied by Jenkins &  Son; and of course her own mouth-watering morsels.

They’re all available, fresh on our doorstep, week-in-week-out – even if most of us can’t serve them up as deliciously as Victoria can.

The more we buy from them, or any of the Saturday market traders, or from the lovely flower stall, or even if we just pick out a few paperbacks at the Sunday book fair, we invest in local businesses.   We will also be helping the Community Centre to survive.  The reasonable rents it charges allow the Centre to be self-funding and keep costs down for the fun community stuff it provides; such as the parent and toddler clubs, life-drawing and Tai-Chi classes, as well as giving a free Christmas Dinner to 90 older local residents last year!

Having just signed a 20-year lease with Camden and with the hope of receiving a CIL grant to upgrade the kitchens the Community Centre is on a steadier footing than before but it still needs us to support it by using any and all of the amenities it has on offer.  It’s all there, slap bang in the centre of our community and whether it’s tulips for our loved ones, more eggs for breakfast or a cheeky Chorizo to snack on, so long as it’s not bought from Tesco, every little helps!

And if you want somewhere to hold a local function then the big hall is available for hire on Thursday nights.  As The GRA discovered it’s a great venue. With Victoria and her team working miracles in the kitchen and the wine and conversation flowing, it felt more easy-going than a restaurant and more personal than a gastropub – and it cost less per head!

Once business was concluded and (non-fuzzy) cheese served, the AGM began to draw to a close.  Having toasted the spirit of unity that had brought us together, I shared a final glass with a neighbour from Well Walk only to be assailed by doubt.  Perhaps The GRA should change its name to reflect its greater diversity?  And if so, what to?  Should we become The Well-Gay Association or The Gay-Walk Association?!

At that point my wife told me to get my coat…

You can contact the Hampstead Community Centre on 020 7794 8313 or visit their website www.hampsteadcommunitycentre.co.uk.  And to find out more about Victoria’s delicious catering contact her va [email protected].

I am delighted to announce that from January 13th 2017, I will be presenting ‘Read On’, RNIB Connect Radio’s programme for those passionate about books and reading.

As the new host of this well-established radio show I will continue to bring listeners all the latest news about books in all their accessible formats, interviewing authors, reviewing new books, reporting from festivals and events across the UK as well of course as keeping listeners up-to-date with the latest news from the RNIB Talking Books Library.

But as a blind author myself I am also keen to bring other members of the RNIB community into the show, to discuss what we are reading, what makes a good audiobook and how books can be made even more accessible.

Talking Books were invented for ex-servicemen blinded in The First World War, they are now a major part of mainstream publishing.  But with eight decades worth of accessible books at our fingertips RNIB members have a breadth and depth of reading that is unrivalled – and a voice that needs to be heard.

I can’t wait to hear it!

‘Read On’ is broadcast every Fridays at 1pm and repeated on Sundays at 2pm and Mondays at 6pm.  With an audience of 154,000 listeners RNIB Connect Radio is broadcast on FM, via your TV on Freeview Channel 730, on-line at www.rnibconnectradio.org.uk and the programme is available as a podcast on iTunes. I look forward to welcoming you to the show.

I’ve heard it so often that it shouldn’t still bother me, but it does.

“Oh, so you’re not completely blind then?”

As if somehow this makes the ordeal of sight loss so much better.

I’m tempted to reply; “Oh, do you think zombies feel happier knowing they’re not completely dead?”; but instead find myself explaining, for the umpteenth time, that, like 97% of those registered blind in the UK, I have a little, residual vision – vision that fluctuates depending on how bright it is, or how tired I am.

Worse though is the incredulity I’m met with as a blind person doing anything visual.  Notwithstanding my pebble-thick reading glasses and the array of light-emitting electronics I carry, I’ve been made to feel that a blind man trying to use his eyes is a fraud.

Not that the word “blind” discourages stereotypes.  Quite apart from its pejorative association with naïve or wilful ignorance, its very definition confers the total inability to see on all those it describes.

The alternatives aren’t much better: “partially sighted” or the archaic “purblind” simply don’t cut the mustard.  And the more modern “visually impaired” rings hollow with the embarrassment of whichever committee first coined it.

And to add bureaucratic insult to injury its two subsections – “sight impaired” and “severely sight impaired” reinforce the impression that sight loss needn’t be regarded as serious until it reaches a certain level.

I’ll confess I was amused the first few times I heard myself described as a VIP, or visually impaired person.  But the happy coincidence of dual meaning has worn thin, becoming as predictable as comments about my lack of complete blindness.

So I’m asking listeners to help compile a new lexicon of meaningful words to describe how we want our sight loss to be seen.

To start the ball rolling I’m proposing “occluded” – meaning obstructed, particularly in terms of an aperture.  It sounds a bit like “ocular”, making you think of the eye, and sits somewhere between included and excluded, reflecting how many of us feel.  In meteorology an occluded front is formed when a cold front overtakes a warm one, often causing unsettled conditions.

Now there’s something I can relate to!

It would seem that all-out war has been declared on New End.  The levels of noise and destruction, of heavy machinery and boots on the ground certainly indicate that an army of occupation has moved in.

The old nurse’s home has been reduced to rubble, the road closed for at least six weeks, The White Bear (a registered community asset) remains boarded up and all for what?  The construction of more yuppy homes hiding behind iron gates.

Oh and then there’s the closure of East Heath road so that some oligarch can have the wall to his big house rebuilt (will he use the opportunity to put razor wire and glass on top of it?).  One man’s whim causing chaos for everyone else and pumping traffic and pollution through Hampstead’s narrow backstreets.  Oh and then there are all the basements being constructed not to mention the Chinese lions that have taken up residence in Gayton Road! What is going on?!

When I moved here back in the 1990s it was to enjoy the village life I’d grown up with in rural West Sussex amid the amenities and vibrancy of London.  Hampstead was a happy mix of those who’d been born and brought up here, those who worked in the area, those just passing through and those who like me fell in love with it’s laid-back vibe the moment we stepped off the 46 bus. What I remember from then is the diversity of ages and backgrounds I found among my neighbours and people’s willingness to stop and chat as they meandered down its quiet, leafy streets.  There was a genuinely vibrant sense of community.

Nowadays you’re lucky if you can hear yourself speak above the screech of drills and pounding of pile drivers, let alone breathe for all the brick dust and diesel fumes.  A trip to the mini-market in New End is like a game of Frogger with skip lorries, and any health benefits I might have got by given up smoking are choked off by the unacceptable levels of man-made pollution.

And I repeat, what’s it all for?  A handful of luxury flats that only fat cats can preen themselves in, with a subterranean carpark for their oversized ego carriers and a gym so that they don’t have to mix with the hoi-polloi at any of the local amenities.  

And who benefits.  Neither the casual visitor hoping to enjoy the tranquillity of this historic area, nor the shop-keepers who depend upon their passing trade.  And certainly not us.  Not the resident population who ho love the tree-lined, sleepy old Hampstead and appreciated the fact that the nurses in our local hospital had a place to live in our community, that our firemen didn’t have to drive down from Milton Keynes every morning because they can’t afford to live in the area, that our shop workers didn’t lose their first two hours wages each day to the cost of commuting in to work.  They alas have all been driven out like so many red squirrels by the rapacious greed of property developers who are turning Hampstead into a habitat for an acquisitive, non-native species of grey squirrels who view property not as a home but an investment to be capitalised on.

Hampstead feels less and less like home with every square foot that gets tossed into the skip of memory.  I realise that we live in a conservation and not a preservation area, but no place should ever become the preserve of a narrow section of society.  Sometimes it feels like the rapine development of Hampstead into an area of gated communities and subterranean bunkers has been designed by its architects to be as noisy and unpleasant as possible (the US Army employs much the same tactics to achieve its ends).

So next time a skip lorry laden with New End spoil threatens to crush you into the pavement, or your throat and eyes burn with brick dust and you head throbs to the percussion of jack-hammers, ask yourself just what is being demolished here, a few old buildings or is a community being deliberately besieged?

People have started ignoring me, giving me a wide berth when I approach and those who do stop to talk show little interest in me.

Take the day-before-yesterday.  Harness in hand I let the guide-dog lead me to The Wells for an ale and a burger.

Anna, the lovely manager, threw open the door in welcome.

“You’re back!  I have missed you so much. Oh yes, you are beautiful!”

I beamed.  I’d only been away a few days but returned to desiccated houseplants, a bevy of bills and the cat’s dirty protests at my absence.  Now, at last, I was being welcomed home properly.

“Oh Ella, you are adorable!  Shall I get your usual bowl of water and maybe a little something else?”  Then, turning to me, Anna said, “And it is nice to see you too.”

Crestfallen I recognised my destiny is to play second fiddle to my recently-acquired guide-hound, even down the pub!  I needed a drink but Anna had nipped off to fetch Ella’s water so I sulked instead.

It’s bad enough surrendering independent locomotion to an (admittedly not-so-dumb) animal, but discovering that my Labrador has more allure than me, well that takes the biscuit!  No wonder Churchill called his bouts of depression his ‘black dog’!

Once Ella has been settled with her bowl of water and a dog biscuit (that I suspect Anna paid for out of her own pocket) I order my pint and burger.

This dog really has wasted no time in getting her paws firmly under my table.  In the space of a month since her arrival she has charmed my wife and daughters and proved herself adept at guiding me to and from all my local haunts.  My journeys with her are safer than they were with a white cane.  She steers me round obstacles.  And people make way for us.  But it’s her that they notice.  Her puppy-dog eyes and skew-whiff ears seduce all who clap their mincers on her.  Truly she is a seeing-eye dog!

Is this why I alone seem immune to her charms; because I can’t see that she’s adorable?  Don’t get me wrong.  I do appreciate my waggy-tailed familiar.  She dotes on me, is always eager to get into harness and lead me wherever I want to go (especially if there’s the prospect of food there) and she is beautifully behaved.  But love her?  Nah!

Maybe I am being a little dog-in-a-manger about this.  My pint arrives and Ella lifts her head to check I’m okay, licks my sleeve and lets her ears flop back down onto my feet.  A passer-by asks if he can stroke her.  I should say no he can’t, not while she’s on-duty but she’s already standing up, tail wagging and I find myself feeling guilty for denying her the attention.  Oh god, am I susceptible too?  Is the dog I only accepted as a working animal destined to become a pet?

“Hello gorgeous.”  My friend Hannah slides in to sit opposite me, and Ella’s up again having her ears tickled, dominating Hannah’s attention for the next five minutes.

“You know dogs are the perfect communist citizens” she tells me.  “They respect rigid rules and hierarchy.  And, so long as they get a modicum of food, shelter and the hope of reward they will work tirelessly and without complaint for their masters.”

The Guide Dog Association said pretty much the same.  “Ella’s trained to work for you, don’t spoil her.”  “I’ve got no problem with that” I tell Hannah who’s fondling Ella’s neck, “but with the liberal amount of affection everyone gives that particular worker, I fear for her efficiency.”

“And,” I might have added, “I resent the assumption that I too should welcome this addition to my life.  I’ve never wanted a dog or the sight-loss that necessitated me getting one.  It’s like opening your heart to a pacemaker.

Later, after half the pub, including an amorous Irish wolfhound has said goodbye to Ella, I head home; Ella walking stalwartly ahead, alert and confident, me straining to put complete trust in her.

We stop at the corner outside Burgh House and, after cocking a cursory ear for traffic, I urge her to cross the road to Flask Walk.

The bloody dog refuses to budge and, as I growl at her to wake up, silent death in the form of an electric car hurtles past our noses, ignores the one-way signs and plunges down Willow Road.

With a newfound respect for my good and faithful servant and a glow of affection I let her lead me home.