I Want My Time With You. The lurid pink letters mark a return, a stand point. My eyes fill with hot tears that mark the relief on my face. My knees buckle as I gaze back, shoulders sagging.
I’m home. I’m home at last. I want my mum, I want my mum and my dog.
St Pancras International is not a usual choice for a venue to get emotional at. You’re more likely to be battered and biffed about by passengers rushing onto the next train - or tourists standing to grab a photo in the centre of a crowded scope. It was the first time I had left the country solo, for a 48 hour round trip - and I was in heels, for chrissakes, in November. How very Bridget bloody Jones. You’re supposed to be a ‘proper’ journalist. I was nineteen, and I’m twenty five now.
I’m often asked why I care about disability - because why would anyone choose to write about that? It isn’t what nice girls do ostensibly. Every journalist has a story fundamental to the ‘why’ of ‘why I bother’; this is one of mine, something to share for disability pride month.
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