I recently had my day off.

It was a day off in the technical sense that I didn’t go to work. It was somewhat less successful if the intention of a day off is to actually rest.

I’d agreed to meet my sister, her kids and my parents for an explore of the local big garden centre. This expanded into exploring the historic gardens, which involved lots of walking.

There was uneven ground. There were steps. There were, rather inconsiderately, steps without handrails.

And I kept up.

That sounds like a very small thing. It probably is.

There was no great rehabilitation moment. Noone notices.  I didn’t stand at the top of a flight of steps, gaze meaningfully into the middle distance and reflect on how far I’d come.

I just carried on walking with my family and chatting

But I noticed it.

There have been times over the last few years when terrain like that would have completely changed an outing. I’d have been looking ahead for the next obstacle, working out where I could put my hand, whether I could manage something safely or whether everyone else was going to have to slow down because of me.

My time  was mostly just exploring some gardens.

Which is quite nice.

Later, my niece wanted to play Simon Says.

She began confidently.

“Simon says hands on head.”

I looked at her rather blankly.

“I can’t do that.”

There was a very brief pause while she processed this new information.

“Simon says hands, or hand, on head.”

And on we went.

I loved it, laughing more than the kids

There was no fuss. No sympathy. No awkwardness. She didn’t abandon the game because Uncle Ben couldn’t comply with the instructions.

The rule didn’t work for one of the people playing, so she changed the rule.

Problem solved.

Disability is  incredibly complicated.

Peopld worry about whether they should offer help. Whether offering help might offend someone. Whether they have used the right words. Whether something counts as a reasonable adjustment. Whether it’s drawing attention to me . Whether we’re not drawing enough attention to my needs

My niece required approximately half a second.

Oh. You can’t do that. Fine.

Hands, or hand.

Continue game.

There’s probably a lesson in there somewhere, but turning a child playing Simon Says into a profound ambassador for disability inclusion feels a bit much.

Mostly, I just thought it was lovely.

And perhaps that was the interesting thing about the whole day.

I negotiated awkward ground and stairs without handrails. My niece encountered something I couldn’t do and casually adapted around it.

Neither became an event.

We just carried on.

I came home tired, because apparently a busy family day involving lots of walking still requires payment from the finite Ben battery eventually.

But it was good tired.

Yesterday, disability was still there.

It just wasn’t in charge.