Having had to get used to new forms of transportation as my disability grew worse I was introduced to the foibles of shopping trolleys, wheelchairs.

My friendly local Heath Authority would kindly issue you a chieftain tank without turret and tracks alas, at no cost to myself. To which I was very grateful. My new vehicle, a hulking 27kg battering ram that had special tyres, kept inflated by magical elves. These Elves would ward off punctures but could not make the tyres hard enough to actually roll easily. It was akin to trying to swim though treacle I imagine, since I have never had that pleasure myself. The frame was robust, it could double up as a crane when not being used, handy I thought. So I had transport, the world was my oyster, even though I never liked oysters. So off I went.

Now in theory I had all I needed, and it was only a theory I discovered. The front wheels were set to self destruct at the first sign of bumps and potholes, not that handy, but it saved them from the tedium of going round and around I suppose. You would hit a bump and just like peeling a Banana, the tyres would peel off the rims. This meant you were stranded, and I never did find the wheelchair branch of the AA or RAC for such occasions. Repairs were not quick, maybe just having one wheelchair repair shop was not the best of plans. Something had to break, and it would not be the chair again I vowed.

A scheme to enable you to get a hot rod wheelchair was available. Complete with anodising, go faster stripes and materials only available to NASA. All this could be built just for you. What could go wrong? Certainly not the wheels that’s for sure. I looked online at boutique builders and symbiotic devices. James Cameron would have been proud to use some of these in Avatar I’m sure. I had my rims in sight.

After a faulty start, and dodging a few rusty shopping trolleys I commissioned the appropriate Dalek construction team. On the day I was due to be shown the ‘shiny thing‘ the sky went dark and within a few minutes more metal and carbon fibre appeared than was needed to construct a working Death Star. I was then taken on a monetary merry-go-round. Member states of the EU would have quivered in fear of bankruptcy at such costs. So having been parted with a sum which felt like the UK’s national debt I had my order. I handed back my stripped down Chieftain Tank, and was given a token towards my new found fast and furious special. Six weeks went by, I got the call. My chariot was on its way.

After taking delivery I was off, no stopping me now, I could travel the world or at least to my village coffee shop with a prevailing wind. I was a free man, mobility was mine at last, nothing could stop me. Actually two broken wheels could. I called for help, no answer was forthcoming, the game was afoot, well a pair of wheels was afoot if you see what I mean.

Since I had exhausted my status as a Disabled Oligarch I pleaded for some rationality, wheels were important, they when on a bus go round and round and I needed that motion as well. I was under the illusion that a company selling wheelchairs had parts. No, that’s far to sensible, the parts were in Italy of course. My wheelchair being created by the supreme being meant nothing could ever go wrong they were all taken off guard. Wheels were sent though, the wrong ones, they may as well have been square. More wheels were sent they were wrong as well, my displeasure grew, and the summer was turning into a flood, but that’s beside the point. I wanted out I had cabin fever.

Silence fell over my email inbox, the phone stopped ringing. This was now beyond even Kofi Annans ability’s as a diplomat to broker a solution. I was forced to call in the disability seals, a team of crack typists with a phone and a huge arsenal of paper. The battle began. Now I wont drag this out but it appeared I never had the wheels I had asked as replacements, oh how I laughed since I had photographic evidence and also a receipt for £5000 Stirling with all the shiny bits and round parts broken down in great detail. My foe hesitated, tried a frontal assault on my communications with them, ‘haha’ I had them now, yet more proof I had mustered so they waved a white flag and conceded defeat. Two wheels were sent from Italy once more but this time they had to fit them.

Now summer had passed and a year was waning the wheels I believed had been sent Frisbee fashion and were probably caught up in a updraught maybe, so more calls were made and with an international incident looming they finally arrived and were fitted. No longer did bearings fly apart at the merest hint of a bump, nor did spokes arrive so loose that they could be mistaken for soggy spaghetti. Fireworks lit the sky as I took to the streets, literally as it was now November.

In my struggle to have wheels that actually rotated, a whole year had past. I discovered new sensations, like the feeling of your groin turning into a frozen puddle. Late night shopping is however a true pleasure. Especially when pretending to be a ‘Light Cycle’ from the film Tron.

They say ‘you get what you pay for’ How wrong they are. Someone really should address who these mysterious people are, and give them a lecture on the dangers of spouting such nonsense.

So buyer beware. Watch out for one of mankind’s oldest inventions, avarice. Oh, and the wheel of course.