I walked many miles yesterday now that we’re back in the routine of school. I’m glad to be moving again, as I am desperate to lose weight but I am pretty exhausted, Things to do today though, like to go in search of Tiger Balm for my right shoulder, which has now been knotted for two weeks.

I was pushing Gabby along on her trike in town today, in the blistering September sunshine. The heat was sapping both our energies, hence the good decision to take the trike along with us. I was characteristically scissor pattern staggering along, glad of Gabby’s weight to keep me up.

Minding my own business, an unfamilar voice beside me said: “What’s wrong with your leg?”

An adult voice, an elderly gentleman I have never met in my life.

In the split second I had to cultivate my response, I decided to play innocent. I looked down towards my leg as if some accident or injury had befallen me. Maybe my leg was bleeding? Maybe even, god forbid, my time of the month had made its appearance?

If that’s too gory for you, don’t wory, it really hadn’t. Already done this month! But my point is, if that had been what was wrong with my leg today, would the stranger have mentioned it? Would it have been an appropriate question to ask an unknown woman in the street? No, of course not.

I am neither blind, nor stupid. I know it is visually obvious there is something physically amiss with this body. I have, in fact, been haunted by the way it looks for years, because it made me “othered”, different in ways I never asked to be. I am, sadly, used to people asking about my otherness.

But, most people have the decency to preface with “Do you mind if I ask…?”

I actually was approached this summer by a mum who recognised me from the school run who said: “Do you mind if I ask, do you have cerebral palsy? What kind? My little girl has it and I just wondered, what wll it be like for her?”

She had her baby girl in her arms and she was kind, gracious and eager for information. As it turned out, we had different types of cerebral palsy, but even the fact she knew the name of the condition was huge to me. She said: “I’ve seen you on the school run with your two girls and it gives me hope for my girl when I see everything you do.”

That was a great way to approach discussing life as a disabled person. It felt liberating to have been seen as myself, not just my condition.

Now, this older gentleman didn’t know me at all. Generational divide may have even said how he approached me was OK by the standards of his own time, but I do not believe that excuses any of us from being informed by the times we live in now. It would not have taken much for him to check if I wanted to talk about something so personal before he launched in. But he didn’t. So I bristled.

“What do you mean?” I asked, looking up from my uninjured leg.

“What’s wrong with your leg?” he said again. I think I flinched a little at the second chance he missed to catch and correct how he was approaching this sensitive subject. “You’re limping.”

“I’ve had a disability from birth.” I replied, hoping that would be matter of fact enough and also show I wasn’t going to engage with this subject. Because I don’t have to.

“Sorry.” he said.

I took half a breath and moved forward, thinking we were done.

“I only ask because my cousin walks the same, with the limp and he was in a big car smash….”

I half appreciated the explanation, but… it just confused me more if I’m honest. Was I meant to know the cousin because we walked similarly? Like when someone asks if you know their friend who lives in the same town/city/county/country? Was this tale meant to compel me to share more personal details? It wouldn’t.

“No.” I said carefully. “I was born prematurely, disabled from birth.”

“Good luck to you.” he said, shuffling off.

And I just feel so…. uncomfortable.

Why was any of this OK to say, to a stranger? I do not accept the age argument at all. Questions are OK, questions are how we learn. Children are best at this and I encourage it in my own two girls because I believe this is how they will become aware of differences, and just come to accept them.

Once, when Squidge was 4, we were on a train when a lady in a wheelchair got on. She did what kids do and looked over at her a lot.

“Why is that lady in a wheelchair Mummy?””

“I don’t know lovely.” I said, making my voice intentionally louder so the lady could be pre-warned of questions coming her way. “Why don’t we ask her? It’s OK for us to wonder, but we must remember she doesn’t have to tell us if she doesn’t want to.”

Squidge nodded and slid off her seat. She went over to the woman and introduced herself.

“Are you disabled? My mummy is disabled, but she hasn’t needed to use a wheelchair since I was in her tummy and it got too hard for her to walk.”

To my shame, I can’t remember the woman’s exact response. It was something along the lines of “It’s hard for me to walk too, so I tend to use this chair to help me get around.” But I do remember how she smiled at my little girl. She wasn’t pertubed by her approach, probably because I realised Squidge hadn’t actually asked more than one question. Instead of bombarding her, Squidge had wanted to make it clear from the outset that they had something in common. But she did it with kindness.

I appreciate this may have been the gentlemen’s approach today. But it was misplaced, because of the language he saw fit to use. If my 4 year old was capable of saying hello and giving her name before asking about someone’s condition or life experience, then so is he.

Because, God knows, it has taken me all of my life so far to realise there is nothing wrong with me. That is the word I am most upset with in this interaction I think. Because he saw fit to repeat it. To a stranger and that’s just not OK.

There’s nothing wrong with me. I’m just me.