The Difficulty of Wheels

Son M was waiting for us in Paris, his face alight. After months of anticipation, this was the moment, for him, to set it all in motion: he was taking his father to be cured. Our eldest son, B, had brought us thus far, and virtually handed us over. He would be going on immediately back to London and his business commitments.

The wheel chair having been produced (finally, after the inevitable wait), the three of us set off in a small parade for the exterior of the airport and a taxi. We were going to rest at son M's hotel before returning to Charles de Gaulle and a domestic flight to take us on to my friend's house in France, later that morning. The official pushing the wheel chair was very young. Son M and I were in front, chatting. Suddenly there was a shout; I looked back and to my horror saw my husband on the floor - he had been tipped out of the wheel chair, lay sprawling but smiling, unhurt - a lesson in care, probably for the young man, who was mortified.

France in December is a grey and damp place. The hotel was bustling, efficient, modern. Husband F took straight to a prone position on the bed in M's room; I headed for a shower before joining M in the lobby, where he was breakfasting. Our reunion was, as ever, joyful. This son lives in San Francisco. Shortly afterwards I glanced up to see husband F coming towards us, on his face such a smile. I shall never forget that smile and his air of happiness as he made his way across the room.

Back at the airport we had the unnervingly familiar debacle over a wheel chair. The taxi had deposited us and we had walked with husband F to a chair, while son M went off to claim the pre-arranged wheels. It seems that to be able to use one, one has to present oneself at the relevant check in. Which was a stiff walk away down a crowded concourse. The usual argument: my father cannot walk here, it is too far, that is why he needs a wheel chair. Sorry sir, but he has to be here with his passport before I can authorise one. But I cannot get him here without it, and I have his passport. Sorry sir.

Eventually, eventually, the lady was persuaded and eventually, after a wait, someone arrived with the necessary, and we set off on a brisk walk in a parade that plows through queues of peevish people who have been waiting in line and patently resent the intrusion- right to the head of such a queue and immediately through the barrier, boarding gate for the plane.

M and I had been trotting obediently behind. Passports, please remove your shoes, even the man in the wheelchair.

Someone remarks: but this isn't where we're going - referring to our boarding passes. Wrong plane. So off we go again, back through the queues of the same people, shoes replaced - thank goodness someone noticed!

This time we were dumped in an area waiting for a large bin-like contraption that would raise us to the level of the plane door, and in this ignominious manner we managed to board and fly to our final destination. Where, I must add, at a minor domestic airport, the only wheel chair arranged and ready for us was waiting at the door. The irony being that this building was so small in scale it was virtually unnecessary, F could walk through it and out to the hire car.